My stomach flipped.
Julian held it up like it was a suspicious package. “Do you want me to open it?” he asked.
I stared at the envelope. A part of me wanted to burn it. Another part wanted to rip it open and search for the impossible: proof that my mother had finally understood.
“Let’s open it,” I said, surprising myself.
Julian slid a finger under the flap carefully, then handed me the pages.
My mother’s writing slanted slightly, the letters pressed hard into the paper like she’d been gripping the pen too tightly.
Lara,
I don’t know if you’ll read this, but I have to try. Your father and I have had a lot of time to think. Losing the house, living the way we do now, it’s been hard. Harder than we ever imagined. We made choices we regret. We thought we were protecting Clara. We thought we were doing what family does. We see now that we hurt you. We were wrong to cut you off. We were wrong to demand your money. We were wrong to go to your house.
I know you may never forgive us. But I want you to know I am sorry. I miss my daughter. I miss the life we had. If you ever want to talk, we are here. If not, I understand.
Love, Mom.
I read it twice.