The letter arrived before Bella had blown out her candles.
That was the first thing I hated about it.
My daughter’s 16th birthday had started exactly the way I wanted: pancakes, loud music, half-opened gifts, and Bella laughing because I’d tried to squeeze 16 gold candles onto a cake that clearly didn’t have room for them.
Then I saw the envelope.
The letter arrived.
Bella’s name on cream paper.
And handwriting I hadn’t seen in five years.
My hand stopped halfway across the table.
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