His voice broke before he finished the first sentence. Rage, yes—but it was the kind that hides inside grief, the kind that blames the living because the dead can’t answer back. One letter had detonated everything he thought he knew about his mother, about himself, about the distance he’d called “normal” for years. Now he wanted answers, demanded them, begged for them, all in the same breath. But the one person who could explain was gone, and the stranger holding her last words was me. Between us lay a silence thick with things unsaid, a love misdelivered, and a question that could never be fully unask…

Continues…