Chapter 2: The Letter That Was Never Meant for Her Hands
Part 2 ⬇️
She stared into the box without moving.
Then she looked up at me.
"Where did you get that?"
"You know exactly where," I said.
Inside the box was every piece of the broken tea set — every shard, every fragment, every sliver of porcelain I had quietly collected off her floor.
But I hadn't brought it back to beg or cry.
Underneath the broken pieces was a printed document.
Her name was on it.
"You went through my things," she hissed.
"No," I said.
"Your son did."
Her face changed completely.
She turned toward the hallway and called his name, but my husband was already standing in the doorway behind me.
She hadn't known he was there.
"Mom," he said quietly.
"I found the letter."
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
"That letter has nothing to do with—"
"It has everything to do with it," he said.
"It was addressed to her.
From her mother.
You've had it for over a year."
The room went completely still.
I watched her reach for the edge of the table to steady herself.
She had kept something from me.
Something my mother had written before she passed.
And I still didn't know what it said.
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What was in that letter — and why did she hide it for over a year?
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