PART 2
The second car was not one my parents recognized.
It was black, low, and spotless, the kind of car that looked too quiet for a neighborhood like theirs, where every arrival usually announced itself with squealing brakes, barking dogs, or someone’s loud holiday leftovers clattering in the trunk. It rolled to a stop behind the courier’s van, and for one long second, everyone inside my parents’ house simply stared through the narrow glass beside the front door.
My mother still held the certified envelope against her chest.
My father stood frozen with the documents in one hand and my handwritten note in the other.
Brent, who had spent the previous night laughing every time my children lowered their heads in embarrassment, suddenly looked like a man who had discovered the joke had been written about him.
The driver’s door opened first.
A woman stepped out in a navy coat, silver-haired, elegant, carrying a leather folder under one arm. My father recognized her before she even reached the porch.
