And then, under the cash, I saw the envelope.

My name was on the front, in Mama’s hand. Susanna. Not Lonnie.

Not “for the children.” Just Susanna.

My fingers started to shake, and a little cloud of leftover flour dust drifted off the rim and settled across the black slacks I still had on from the funeral.

That single name did something to me before I ever opened the envelope.

My mother was scrupulously fair with us her whole life — everything split down the middle, every gift matched, careful never to be seen favoring one child over the other, in a house where I’d always quietly felt the favoring ran the other way.