Behind them sat a thick manila envelope, completely blank.
No stamp, no postmark, and no name written across the front.
I stood there in the lobby, the smell of damp coats and old paper around me, and slid my finger under the metal clasp of the envelope.
I pulled out a single sheet of paper that had been folded twice.
It was a photocopy of the notarized custody agreement from April 2008.
My own signature looked back at me from the bottom of the page, written in the dark blue ink I used to favor before everything fell apart.
The notary seal from the county courthouse was a gray circle in the upper corner, slightly faded from the copier machine.
Mr. Henderson, the postmaster, looked up from his sorting tray behind the counter, his reading glasses slipping down his nose.
“Morning, Nora,” he said. “Iris ready for the big dance?”
“Almost,” I said, slipping the paper back into the envelope. “She is still looking for a dress
