Ten minutes later, a message appeared.
It was from Carla’s longtime neighbor, Janice.
“Marissa still lives nearby. I’ll send you her address.”
An hour later, another message arrived.
This one was from a woman named Sandra, who used to work at the town post office.
“Marissa is Karl’s mother,” she wrote. “Carla used to collect the returned letters herself so they never reached him.”
My chest tightened.
So Marissa had tried to contact him.
For years.
And Carla had made sure he never saw those letters.
That evening, Karl returned home earlier than expected.
The moment he walked through the door, his eyes dropped to the dirt stains on my shirt.
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