I could keep dialing his number, letting the silence on the other end wear away whatever dignity I had left.
Or I could stop chasing a man who had decided I no longer existed.
If Ethan wanted to ignore my voice, he would have to ignore a paper trail.
I walked into the small room next to mine, where the cheap laminate wood of the nursery dresser smelled faintly of glue.
I folded the green knit baby blanket and placed it at the very top of the nursery drawer.
The lobby of the Oakridge post office smelled of wet coats and old paper. Arthur, the clerk who had worked the counter since my childhood, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and slid my envelope onto the scale.
“Seven dollars and forty cents for the certified delivery with return receipt,” he said.
I reached into my purse for my wallet, my index finger brushing against my silver band. “Will he have to sign for it himself?”
