I took Linda’s letter from the drawer.

My mother had folded it into precise thirds, as she always did with letters she meant to keep.

I smoothed the paper against the table, then folded it along those same creases.

“If something ever makes you feel unsafe, Emma, remember that your mother left you more than a name.”

Those were her words, written near the bottom of the page.

I had read them so many times that I could recite them without unfolding the letter.