It came on a Thursday with the regular mail, tucked between a grocery flyer and an insurance statement. The envelope was cream, her name written in Suzanne’s neat slanted script. Not a text from a new number. Not an email routed around filters. Paper, because paper looked civilized and the restraining order had taught Suzanne the aesthetic value of distance.
Wendy stood in the kitchen holding it for a full minute before opening it.
The first line was my dear wendy, which nearly made her laugh.
The next paragraph explained that Philip’s health was failing. Then that money was tight. Then that the apartment was “difficult” and Cheryl was overwhelmed with Jaden and had “no support.” Then that family should forgive. Then that Suzanne was “sorry for how things came out.”
How things came out.
Not what she had done. Not what she had chosen. How things came out, as if words and hands and legal filings were weather.