Nothing.
Whoever had delivered it was already gone.
He closed the door and carried the envelope into the kitchen.
By then, my mother had come downstairs.
“What is that?”
“Someone left it on the porch.”
“At six in the morning?”
“I know.”
She took the envelope from him.
The moment she saw her name printed beneath his, her expression changed.
ROBERT AND DIANE HAYES
She stared at it.
“Open it,” my father said.
She didn’t.
Instead, she turned it over.
There was a second piece of paper taped to the back.
Only six words.
You asked us never to come back.
My mother went completely still.
My father looked at her.
“Diane?”
She slowly peeled the paper away.
Her hands were shaking.
“Who sent this?”
Neither of them answered.
Because both of them already knew.
Or thought they did.
My mother opened the envelope.
The first thing that fell onto the kitchen table was a photograph.
