My hands shook as I opened it. The handwriting was Lily’s — careful, deliberate, the same way she’d written thank-you notes after her 16th birthday party:
“I packed your things. You’re not allowed in the house anymore.”
That was it. No explanation. No signature. No “I’m sorry” or “we need to talk.” Just those two sentences that felt like a knife sliding between my ribs.
I couldn’t breathe.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The front door was locked. I tried my key twice, hands shaking so badly I could barely fit it in the lock. I finally got the door open, just enough to step inside, and found another note on the floor:
“I knew you wouldn’t listen. Call me ASAP.”
My mind raced through every possible mistake I’d made over the past 11 years.
The harsh words when I was too tired. The times I’d been impatient about homework or curfew. All the moments I’d been too much of a replacement for the mother Lily had lost and the father who’d died.
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