Susan, now Julie, finishes her mother’s letter:
They came for me, his family. After the sirens, after the police took me away and put you in the care of neighbors, his parents and his sister with their lawyer came to the police station, where they found me, broken. “We will make sure you will be put away for the rest of your life. You will never see outside prison walls, you will never have visitors nor any communication with friends or family. And you will never, ever see your daughters again,” they told me. I was made to sign an “agreement.” If ever any of the terms of the agreement were broken, your lives and the lives of any others complicit in violating these terms would be endangered.
You were both adopted. Julie, you were told your birth parents died in a car crash. Jeannie, you were adopted by a childless couple who then bore a son; you were told they were your natural parents. I was charged with second degree murder and, as promised, given a life sentence. So, my darlings, with an anguished heart but sustained by your abiding presence in the depths of my soul, I send you my love,
Mommy
Miranda
Miranda woke early the next morning. She had slept deeply and felt rested for the first time in weeks. Just then she had a memory flash of pain, but quickly suppressed it. She felt good. She opened her curtains as the dawn light illuminated wispy remnants of the Bay Area fog. Today, she said to herself, will be a pleasant day. Today, she added, I will fix my own latte at home. The doorbell rang.
THE END
