I looked at the envelope again.
The writing was unmistakable. I had seen it on grocery lists, birthday cards, school forms, and the small notes my mother used to leave beside my breakfast when I was a child.
The letters leaned slightly to the right. The capital A had a long, elegant crossbar. The final e in “you” always curved upward.
This was hers.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
Daniel set the envelope on the table.
“Maybe Claire added it.”
“No.”
“You said it’s your mother’s handwriting.”
“It is.”
“Then
