I gestured toward the porch swing. Mom had installed it when I was twelve after I’d declared that every porch in every movie ever had a swing and it was an injustice we didn’t. Dad had grumbled about chains and support beams; Mom had arrived the next weekend with brackets, screws, and an air of cheerful determination. By Sunday afternoon, we had a swing.
Lily and I sat on it now, the chains creaking softly as we settled into the worn cushions. The ocean stretched out in front of us, shimmering under a sky so clear it hurt.
For a few long seconds, we just listened to the waves.
Lily seemed to gather herself. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of papers, edges crumpled, some of them still bearing faint fold lines.
“I found these in Mom’s—Victoria’s—desk,” she said, stumbling over the name.
My heart gave a small, wary lurch. Papers hidden in a desk, coming from Victoria’s office, rarely meant anything good.
But when she handed them to me, my breath caught.
I recognized the handwriting instantly.
Mom’s.
“They’re letters your mom wrote to you before she died,” Lily said softly. “Victoria never gave them to you.”