“He didn’t seem too happy about it.”

I waited until the front door clicked shut before I looked down at the bundle in my hands.

Between two gas bills was a thick, square envelope made of heavy white paper.

There was no stamp, no postmark, and no return address on the front.

Written across the center in my mother’s tight, elegant cursive was the name Mara Whitmore.

I carried the mail up the carpeted stairs to my third-floor apartment, my wet boots squeaking against the linoleum.