TWO HOURS BEFORE MY WEDDING, MY MOTHER CAME BACK FROM THE HAIR SALON CRYING. WHEN I REMOVED HER HAT, I REALIZED MY FIANCÉ HAD HELPED DESTROY SOMETHING SHE'D TREASURED FOR THIRTY YEARS. THEN I PICKED UP A PAIR OF SCISSORS—AND MADE A DECISION THAT WOULD CHANGE ALL OUR LIVES.

Six months after Grace was born, a single white envelope arrived in my post office box.

It bore the return stamp of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation: *Wasco State Prison Reception Center.*

The handwriting was cramped, shaky, and unpolished.

Brandon.

I sat in my car in the post office parking lot with the unopened envelope resting on the steering wheel. Grace was asleep in the rear-facing car seat behind me, her chest rising and falling in rhythmic peace.

I had the right to shred it. I had the right to burn it. The restraining order barred him from sending mail directly to my residence, but my post office box was technically monitored by Marcus’s office for legal notifications.

I took a deep breath, slid my thumb beneath the flap, and opened the letter.

*“Naomi,*

*I don't know if this will reach you, or if your lawyer will throw it in the trash. If you are reading this, I just want to say I’m sorry.*

*The camp here isn't what I thought it would be. We work clearing brush along the mountain roads fourteen hours a day. My hands are calloused; my back aches constantly. Every time I pick up a shovel, I think of your mother’s garden. I think of how she used to bring me lemonade when I sat on her porch.*

*My parents lost the Los Altos house. The legal debts and the civil restitution wiped out their retirement. They don't visit me. Brianna wrote to me once from Corona, blaming me for her sentence, but I tore the letter up.*

*I know you had the baby. Marcus’s legal team sent the final non-paternity execution confirmation three months ago. I signed the certified copies.*

*I don't expect you to ever forgive me. I know I was a coward. I let money and fear turn me into someone I hated. If it means anything to you, tell your mother that I think about what I did every single day when the lights go out in the dormitory.*

*She was the only person who was ever truly kind to me.*

*Don't write back.*

*Brandon.”*

I stared at the blue-lined paper for a long time.

There was no anger left in me. No desire for further revenge. No satisfaction in his misery. There was only a profound, silent void where a life had once existed.

He was right about one thing: I would not write back.

He had made his choices with a pair of shears and a commercial lease agreement; he could live with the silence they had purchased for him.

I folded the letter, placed it back inside the envelope, and slid it into the glove compartment beneath the vehicle registration. One day, when Grace was old enough to ask questions about the shadows that lingered behind her origin, I would show it to her. Not to poison her against her ancestry, but to teach her what happens when pride and greed replace honor and love.