Later that night, after most had gone to bed or left, I sat alone at the kitchen table.
Charlotte’s letter was still there.
I picked it up again, tracing her handwriting.
For years, I thought our story had ended without closure.
But now I understood—we had simply taken different paths.
And somehow, they led back to each other.
I smiled softly. “You always did things your own way.”
“Talking to Mom again?” Mia’s voice came from behind me.
I turned. She was leaning against the doorway.
“Something like that,” I said.
She sat across from me. “She used to talk about you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She said you were the only person who ever truly understood her.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like her.”
