“But something always felt wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
I took a slow breath.
“My mother would never have left without saying goodbye.”
Julian leaned against the wall.
“Maybe she was afraid.”
“Maybe.”
I stared at the handwriting.
“But if she was afraid, why did she come back?”
That was the question that had been haunting me since I opened the note.
Why now?
Why after all these years?
And why had this message been hidden inside my home?
I looked at Julian.
“Did you know this envelope was here?”
“No.”
“Did you ever open that drawer before?”
His expression changed slightly.
Not anger.
Confusion.
“No.”
I studied him.
The old version of me would have accepted that answer immediately.
The old version of me trusted words because I wanted people to be honest.
But something had changed.
Not because I had become suspicious of everyone.
Because I had learned that love did not mean ignoring questions.
