My parents kicked me out one day after my C-section—with my newborn in my arms. Then my husband pulled up, looked at my face, and made one phone call that changed everything.

By the second page it became clearer what the letter actually was: a petition for renewed access to Wendy’s guilt. Suzanne wrote that Wendy had “always been the strong one,” which in family code meant the one expected to absorb the blow. She wrote that holding onto anger would “poison” Wendy’s motherhood. She wrote that Paige deserved grandparents. She wrote that Mitchell had “escalated a misunderstanding into permanent damage.” She wrote that Wendy owed them mercy because they were still family.

Wendy stopped reading.

The kitchen smelled like coffee grounds and dish soap. Paige babbled from the high chair where Mitchell had just strapped her in with a teething ring. Sunlight hit the counter in a clean bright square. Wendy could hear the dryer running in the hall closet and Mitchell upstairs taking a work call in the office.

Life. Ordinary, intact life.

She walked to the small office nook where Mitchell had set up the shredder after the legal mess because they were, as he put it, done allowing paper to camp in their peace. She fed the letter into the slot and watched Suzanne’s handwriting vanish between the teeth of the machine line by line until only thin white strips remained.