Diane’s sunglasses slid down her nose as she read, and the paper began to shake in her hands. The color drained from her face, and her voice came out thin and cracked. “You didn’t…” she whispered. The church women leaned closer, the casserole forgotten, the fern tipping sideways in someone’s arms. Nobody on that porch breathed. I kept my arms folded and said nothing.

Inside the envelope were three pages: a bank statement with my name on it, a stamped police report, and a notice bearing the county seal. Before anyone could speak, tires crunched on the gravel behind the moving truck. A sheriff’s cruiser rolled up the driveway with its lights off, and a deputy stepped out holding a folder with my mother’s name written on the tab.