“What did you do, Terrence?” I whispered, looking at the brass key that was taped to the corner of the paper.
I felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the drafty cabin, because seeing his handwriting made the grief feel fresh and terrifyingly vital again. No one had called me “Mom” with any kindness since the funeral, as Brigitte had turned my very existence into a chore.
I slid my finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled out a multi-page letter that felt heavy and significant in my lap. I realized then that there was something truly unbearable about being loved in advance by someone who was already in the grave.
“Mama,” the letter began, “if you are reading this, it means I didn’t have enough time to tell you the truth to your face.”
I paused, my eyes blurring as I tried to steady my breathing while the ghost of his voice echoed in my mind.
“I need you to do something very difficult for me, and that is to stop trusting Brigitte immediately,” the letter continued.