The Letter Had This Week’s Postmark

in today’s mail.”

I stared at her.

“No…”

She slowly pointed toward the upper-right corner.

“There was a postmark.”

My eyes moved there automatically.

Tuesday.

This week.

Fresh ink.

Fresh processing marks.

Fresh postage.

The room suddenly felt too small.

“You told us Mom died fourteen years ago,” Maya whispered, her voice breaking.

Then she looked directly into continue reading …