never opened it?”
“It isn’t mine.”
I looked at Leo.
Mom had written something for this exact version of me.
Not the daughter.
Not the accountant.
Not the wife.
The mother.
I slid one finger beneath the flap.
Then stopped.
Suddenly, I was afraid.
Not of bad news.
Of being understood by someone who had been gone eleven years.
Rowan touched my shoulder.
“You don’t have to read it tonight.”
I looked at him.
Then Dad.
Then Leo.
Maybe some truths arrived only when we were ready.
I carried the
