The mansion may have been worth millions, but that wasn’t the true inheritance. The real gift was what I had craved since I was ten years old—belonging.

One evening, as I slipped the letter back into the drawer, my husband appeared in the doorway, watching me with gentle concern.

“You still read it every night,” he said softly.

I nodded, my fingertips brushing Helen’s handwriting. “Because every time I do… I believe her words a little more.”