I watched as Karen retreated down the hallway, her footsteps fading away. I closed the door, the click of the latch bringing a temporary sense of closure. But the letter waited on the table, a reminder of the conversation I couldn’t avoid.
Returning to the kitchen, I picked up the letter again, my eyes scanning the words that seemed to blur together. Promises of security, of never having to worry, all seemed like distant echoes of a life that was never mine to begin with.
Later that evening, the phone rang. It was my sister, Susan, her voice a familiar comfort.
“Hey, I was just thinking about you,” she said. “How’s everything going?”
“It’s… okay,” I replied, unsure of how to voice the unease that had settled in my chest.
“Just okay? You don’t sound so sure.”
“Yeah, just dealing with some stuff,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
There was a pause on the line, a silence that spoke volumes. Susan had always been the one to sense when something was off, even from miles away.
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