Home of a mother, wife, writer

It was Sunday, and there shouldn’t have been a letter in the mailbox, but there was. I don’t even know what had me checking it. I had a routine. I checked the mail when I got the kids off the bus. They don’t have school on Sunday either. So, why was I walking down the driveway to the mailbox?

I reached in and pulled out the envelope. Not a bill. That’s good at least. We got enough bills. Didn’t need one on Sundays as well. I didn’t recognize the writing on the envelope, and there was no return address. I turned it in my hands a couple times, but still could not figure out who it could be from.

There was no postmark. So where had it come from? Obviously not through the mail. Someone must have walked by and put it in the mailbox. Must have been what the dog was going crazy about while I was busy getting the kids breakfast that morning. Of course, that dog would bark at a leaf blowing by the house, so I hadn’t put much thought into it.

I was still examining the letter when I walked into the house. The kids looked up at me as I walked by the living room with it. My oldest jumped off the couch. “What is it? Is it for me? Is it from Daddy?”

I just shook my head. It was addressed to me, but I wouldn’t know more until I opened it. I took it into the kitchen, and uninterested now, my daughter went back to watching her cartoons with her brother.

I grabbed the letter opener and slit the top of the envelope. There was just a single sheet of paper. A coldness swept over me as I looked at it. Then, a scream ripped out of my throat, and the paper drifted to the floor.

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