my father said.
Jason turned several pages.
“You’re right.”
Helen lifted a small recording device from the satchel.
Beneath it lay a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the front.
CLARA BENNETT.
My father stopped breathing.
I recognized the handwriting.
My mother’s.
For a moment, the station vanished.
I saw her at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blue cardigan even in summer because treatment always left her cold. I saw the way she wrote grocery lists in neat capital letters. I remembered finding notes in my lunch bag long after I was old enough to pack it myself.
Be brave today.
Call me when you arrive.
I’m proud of you.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the envelope.
“Why would my mother have written to me?”
No one answered.
The seal had never been broken.
Inside was a single sheet of paper and a photograph.
