Right in the middle stood one huge black balloon. Beneath it rested a red box.
Della, my little sister, clutched the back of my shirt. “Syd, who is that from?”
I couldn’t answer. My stomach had already sunk.
A note had been taped to the lid.
“You came to my window every day. Nobody else did. And nobody knew anything about me. Please open it.”
—
I had been raising Della alone since I was nineteen.
Eight years earlier, our parents disappeared during a hiking trip and never returned. One week I was arguing with Mom about staying out too late. The following week I was signing school paperwork for Della with trembling hands.
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