My bedroom looked nothing like the place I had left eight months ago.
The navy sheets were fresh. My boots were lined up by the closet. My old Richmond Flying Squirrels baseball cap sat on the dresser.
But my bed was covered in envelopes.
Some were blue. Some were white. Some had my name written in Tessa’s neat, slanted handwriting.
And beside them were things that did not belong in any welcome-home surprise.
Bank statements.
A copy of my mother’s will.
A deed to the little white house on River Road.
A flash drive.
A folder marked POWER OF ATTORNEY in red ink.
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