I spent days sorting through their belongings, trying to make sense of what felt like betrayal. The smell of my mother’s rose perfume lingered in her closet; my father’s old reading glasses sat neatly on the table beside his armchair. Everywhere I turned, their presence was alive, but their reasoning remained a mystery.
Then one afternoon, as I was leafing through my mother’s old recipe books, a folded envelope slipped out and landed on the counter. On the front, written in her elegant handwriting, were the words: For our children.
The Letter
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