The paper was creased, as though it had traveled more than once.

A return-to-sender marking crossed its face.

Beneath it was a sentence in black ink, unmistakably in my mother’s handwriting.

Liam has moved forward with his life.

Please respect his decision and do not contact him again about the child.

I knew every loop in that handwriting.

It had appeared on packed lunches, birthday envelopes, report cards, and Christmas presents.

I had never been frightened by a few words on paper before.