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Reaching past it, my fingers find the letter my mom wrote to Mason that was really intended for me. “I need you to read it,” I tell him, placing the envelope into his hand. “Out loud, so I can hear.”

He studies me for a moment, an unspoken understanding passing between us. With careful fingers, he opens the envelope and unfolds the letter. Clearing his throat, he begins to read.

“Dear Mason, I know you probably miss her. I miss her, too. I also know you’re probably confused, wondering what might’ve happened to her. My hope is this letter will help ease your mind. And perhaps my mind as well.”

My dad pauses, casting a questioning glance my way. I nod slightly, encouraging him to continue. I’ve already read this part. It’s what comes next that I most need to hear.

“By now you’ve likely realized Natasha is gone and she won’t be returning anytime soon. It’s a reality that weighs on my heart every day.

“After her arrest, I felt broken. Not only did I fail her as a mother, but the thought of losing my precious daughter to a system that would swallow her whole was unbearable. So, when Arthur Blackstone offered an alternative—a choice between a juvenile detention center and a private academy where she could thrive in the way she deserved—well, it seemed like a lifeline, a chance to restore all the hope that was lost in the wake of her father’s absence.”

As my dad reads, he’s so overcome by the words, his voice wavers. Choked with emotion, he’s forced to stop and take a steadying breath before continuing.

“Still, the decision didn’t come easily. In fact, sending Natasha away was the hardest choice I’ve ever made. And though I managed to convince myself it was the only viable path out of the bleakness of our lives, I’m now left to grapple with the guilt and doubt that have become a regular part of my day.

“If you’ve passed by our house recently, you may have noticed that I benefitted as well. Arthur has provided a generous monthly stipend, which has freed me from the financial burdens that have long plagued our family.

“At the time, the cost seemed minimal—no contact with Natasha in exchange for a brighter future for her. What I didn’t anticipate was the profound sense of loss, the deep relentless ache that her absence has made. And I’m often reminded of the quote from Matthew, 16:26:

“What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?

“I pray every day I haven’t made that mistake.

“And in my darkest moments, when I’m wrestling with all that I’ve done, I find myself thinking of you, the bond you and Natasha shared, and how positively you influenced each other.

“My greatest hope now is that, once this chapter of our lives comes to a close, Natasha will be well on her way to a life far better than anything I ever could’ve provided alone.

“I hope she’ll understand that my choice stemmed not from greed, but from the depths of a mother’s love for her daughter.

“I hope, too, that she can find it in her heart to forgive me. Maybe then, I can begin the journey of forgiving myself.

“And I hope that you, Mason, can forgive me as well.

“Wishing you only the best, today and always.

“Amanda Clarke.”

When my father finishes reading, he gazes at me, his voice clogged with emotion. “Amanda?”

With tears streaming down my face, I give a tentative nod.

“There are a lot of Amandas out there,” he says, carefully refolding the letter with trembling fingers, before handing it to me. “Maybe you can help narrow it down and tell me her maiden name, at least?”

I’m on the verge of telling him, but then I pause. “I think it’ll be a lot more fun for you to discover that on your own,” I say, a small smile breaking through the thick haze of tears.

My dad laughs in response, a warm, rich, infectious sound. I find myself clinging to it, engraving it onto my memory as a treasure to carry with me into whatever comes next.

As we approach the door, the finality of the moment hits me.

This is it. I’m never going to see him again. Whatever’s left to do or say needs to happen quickly.

“Dad—” My voice falters, and I force myself to summon the strength to speak the words that have been pressing persistently against my heart. “Just so you know—you were a really amazing dad. The best any daughter could ever hope for.”

Tears flow freely down his cheeks as he pulls me into a tight embrace. I absorb the warmth of his arms, the steady beat of his heart, determined to imprint the comfort of his presence directly onto my soul. Then, with great reluctance, I pull away.

“Ready?” he asks, wiping the tears with the back of his hand.

Part of me wants to sayno, dig in my heels, and demand to stay here. But strangely, the word just won’t come. Because the truth is, I am ready—or, at least, as ready as I’ll ever be. Just as he’s about to open the door, a sudden thought stops me.