Underneath the legal certificate was a thin envelope containing an old letter from my late sister, Julie. Her familiar, rounded handwriting covered the blue paper, reminding me of the long days we spent together in the county office trying to get the paperwork approved.
I ran my fingers over the faded ink, remembering how hard we had worked to bring Ethan home.
I opened my checkbook to record the afternoon transaction, the blue pen dry against the paper.
The empty space in my checkbook where my life savings used to be.
By nine the next morning, Martha was standing in my bedroom, her arms full of winter blankets we were moving to the top shelf of my closet.
Martha was my next-door neighbor, a retired nurse who still wore her white orthopedic shoes and smelled of lavender soap.
She reached into the dark corner of my cedar wardrobe and pulled a crumpled slip of paper from the pocket of my heavy winter coat.
“Did you drop this, Stephanie?” she asked, smoothing the blue sheet against her apron before handing it to me.
