Dad.
I read it twice more. My lawyer brain searched for holes, but the handwriting was his, and that line—sorryer than you’ll ever know—was pure Dad. His guilty phrase whenever he missed a birthday dinner or a school play.
David Miller. Not his real name.
Five years together. Three years married.
I looked at my platinum wedding band catching the last of the daylight and felt something inside me split clean down the middle.
Then my phone buzzed again, and I jumped so hard I almost dropped it.
Mom.
I hit call before I could think.
Straight to voicemail.
Her warm Texas drawl asked me to leave a message.
“Mom, it’s me,” I said after the beep, trying to steady my voice. “Call me back. It’s urgent.”
I paused, unsure what was safe to say.
“Please.”
I hung up and tried again.
Voicemail.
Mom always answered, especially today. Unless her phone was dead.
Or off.
Or taken.
Movement flashed in my mirror.
