She had never mailed it.

She had feared his indifference more than his anger.

The letter began, “I know you didn’t think I was ready for a baby, but she’s here and I wish you knew her.” By its end, Hannah had crossed out almost every sentence asking for help.

She sat on the new apartment floor holding it.

Sophie was assembling a borrowed lamp beside the couch and humming to herself.

Hannah realized she had spent years protecting her daughter from the pain of rejection while quietly teaching herself not to ask anyone for anything.