My dearest daughter,
I held you for three minutes before I had to let you go…
Simone’s breath broke into a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a laugh.
She flipped pages.
One letter for every year.
Her birthdays. Her first day of school. Her high school graduation. Her wedding day.
The handwriting was steady, elegant, and painfully consistent, like a man had poured love into paper because he couldn’t pour it into her life.
She reached the last letter, dated three months ago.
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