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“No,” she said sharply. “It’s from him.”
I stared at her. “Who?”
“You know who,” she said. “Your father.”
I hesitated. “Can I open it?”
“No.” Her voice was firm.
“That man doesn’t get to be part of your life.”
She took it from me and tossed it back into the trash. I didn’t argue. I just stood there. I was too young to understand. Too scared to push.
When I was 12, I tried again.
“Why did he leave us?”
She didn’t look up from the laundry.
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