Chapter 16 - The Arrival in the Mailbox
On a Tuesday morning in late May, the mail carrier dropped a single, heavy cream-colored envelope into their roadside box.
Sarah pulled it out while walking back up the gravel path, her fingers pausing when she saw the return address. There was no name, just a stamp from a maximum-security state penitentiary three thousand miles away.
She didn't open it on the porch. She walked inside, set her keys on the counter, and slid the envelope across the butcher-block table toward the boy, who was busy doing his math homework with his left hand.
"Do you want me to throw it away?" she asked quietly.
The boy stared at the thick, heavy paper. He knew whose handwriting was inside—sharp, slanted, and authoritative, the kind of handwriting that used to grade him like an employee rather than a son.
May you like
"No," he said, picking up a butter knife and carefully slicing open the top edge. "Let's see what he has to say for himself now that he can't yell."
He pulled out a single sheet of lined institutional paper. There were no threats, no grand apologies, and no excuses. Just three short sentences written in shaky, cramped ink.
