That same evening, someone knocked on the door.
I opened the letter.
A man introduced himself as Mrs. Whitmore’s lawyer and handed me an envelope.
“You deserve to know what really happened back then.”
My hands began to shake.
I opened the letter.
I kept reading.
The letter began with three words.
“I am sorry.”
I stopped there for a moment.
Then I kept reading.
She could work.
My mother wrote that she knew I probably hated her. She said she had spent most of her life believing she deserved that hatred, because no explanation could erase what she had done.
Then she told me something I had never known.
She had been seriously ill since she was a teenager.
I kept reading.
