“You signed my name?”
“No. Never. I signed mine and explained I was your sister. They sent this because they still needed confirmation from you.”
I looked at the date.
September 18.
Three weeks after I had placed my acceptance letter in the drawer.
My hands began to shake.
“Where did this go?”
“I thought you got it.”
“I didn’t.”
“It was mailed to Mom and Dad’s house.”
I stared at the address.
She was right.
The address was ours.
The house where I had been living.
The house where I had spent mornings warming bottles and afternoons washing tiny socks and nights trying to persuade myself that school could wait.
“I never saw this.”
“I know that now.”
“How?”
“It was in the storage unit.”
“Why?”
Denise shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“How did a letter addressed to me end up in your storage?”
“I don’t know.”
