Trevor read the first page twice, his lips moving silently. Amanda snatched the papers from his hand, and I watched the color drain from her face. “Thirty days?” she whispered. “Trevor, who is Nathan Brooks?” I took a slow sip of coffee and said nothing. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the quiet. I had rehearsed this moment for months, yet my heart still pounded against my ribs.
Then a handwritten letter slid out from behind the last page. Trevor recognized my cursive at once. His hands began to shake. “Mom,” he said hoarsely, “what is this?” He read the first line aloud, and his voice cracked halfway through it. “Trevor, before you say another word, remember who laughed hardest on my birthday.” Amanda grabbed the table edge. Behind the letter was a photograph of the scratch card.
