“See you later,” she said.
I didn’t think anything of it.
When I came home that evening, my world stopped.
My suitcase was sitting on the porch. The big one I used for trips I never took because there was always something Lily needed more.
Taped to the handle was a printed photo of me.
And on top of the photo was a folded piece of notebook paper.
My hands shook as I opened it. The handwriting was Lily’s — careful, deliberate, the same way she’d written thank-you notes after her 16th birthday party:
That was it.
No explanation. No signature. No “I’m sorry” or “we need to talk.” Just those two sentences that felt like a knife sliding between my ribs.
I couldn’t breathe.
