It’s quiet for three weeks after the night Zara ran.
Not silent.
Not fragile.
Just… careful.
We move more deliberately around each other.
More check-ins.
More “you good?” at random intervals.
More small reassurances that feel bigger than they should.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the house exhales again.
Until the envelope arrives.
It’s addressed to Zara.
Handwritten.
No return address.
She brings it to the kitchen table.
“It’s from her.”
My stomach tightens.
“Your biological mother?”
She nods.
“She’s in county, not federal. Different prison.”
Marcus and I exchange a look.
“Do you want to open it?” I ask.
She shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
But her hands are shaking.
She tears it open.
The paper is cheap. The handwriting uneven.
She reads silently at first.
The
