The nursery smelled faintly of baby powder, warm cotton, and the lavender sachets Colleen tucked into drawers because she swore the scent made everything feel calmer. Three cribs stood in a neat row against the far wall beneath painted clouds. A rocking chair sat by the window with a folded blanket over one arm, waiting for the woman who would never sit there.
Dorothy crossed the room, opened the closet, and knelt.
Blankets were stacked on the bottom shelf by size and color. That was Colleen all over—organized even in tenderness. Dorothy moved them one by one, careful not to disturb the arrangement more than necessary.
Her fingers found tape.
Then paper.
A large manila envelope was fixed to the back wall behind the blankets.
On the front, in Colleen’s neat handwriting, were two words.
For Mom.
Dorothy stared at it for a long moment, one hand pressed to her mouth.
Then she peeled it free.
Inside were five items: an eight-page handwritten letter folded in thirds, a USB drive taped to an index card, printed screenshots of text messages, a separate phone bill in Grant’s name, and a short note on lined paper.
Mom, if you’re reading this, I was right.
Don’t let him take my babies.