The Letter on the Coffee Table
I needed answers more than I needed clothes.
When we returned, the door was unlocked. The living room looked like a storm had hit only one side of it. Kenneth sat hunched on the sofa, a brittle letter on the table.
“Read,” he said.
It was dated twenty-five years ago — a supposed confession from my mother claiming an affair with Kenneth’s father. It was dripping with melodrama and shame, words my practical mother would never write.
At the bottom corner was an embossed rising sun — the logo of the Sunrise Wellness Center, where Catherine volunteered.
The letter wasn’t old. It was freshly made.
