That was the thing without a clean name.

But it was what sat tucked behind the official documents that stopped Martha’s breath entirely.

A single sheet of lined notebook paper, folded twice.

A handwritten letter, addressed at the top, in blue ink, to her.

To Martha.

To Mom.

And the handwriting was not Mark’s.

It was round, and looping, and familiar in the specific way that only your own child’s handwriting is familiar — the handwriting Martha had watched form itself over years of homework and birthday cards and notes left on the counter.