Three hours later, I arrived in Savannah.

My sister Margaret was waiting on the porch.

She hugged me before I even opened the car door.

“You look different.”

“I feel different.”

She laughed.

“Where’s your suitcase?”

I pointed behind me.

“Everything I own is in it.”

Margaret looked at the little yellow house.

“You finally bought it?”

“I did.”

She smiled.

“You always wanted a porch.”

“I always wanted a place where nobody could tell me I was a burden.”

Her smile disappeared.

“What happened?”

I sat down on the porch swing.

And for the first time, I told someone everything.

The birthday card.

The scratch ticket.

The eleven million dollars.

The lawyers.

The house.

The letter.

The suitcase.

Margaret listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she reached for my hand.

“Does Daniel know?”

“He knows.”

“And?”

“He’ll survive.”

Margaret nodded.

“You sound sure.”

“I am.”

That evening, I unpacked.

Not much.

Three dresses.

A photograph of Harold.

My mother’s china.

And the cardigan with the pocket where I had hidden the winning ticket.

I hung the cardigan in the closet.

Then I took Harold’s photograph and placed it on the mantel.

“You’d be proud of me,” I whispered.

My phone rang.

Daniel.

I stared at the screen.

I didn’t answer.

It rang again.

Then again.

Finally, a message appeared.

Mom, please call me.

I put the phone down.

Five minutes later, another message arrived.

Renata found something in the house.

I froze.

Another message.

Something you left behind.

My heart began beating faster.

I called him.

He answered immediately.

“Mom?”

“What did she find?”

He was silent.

Then he said:

“Your old birthday cards.”

I frowned.

“So?”

“Mom…”

His voice dropped.

“There’s one from Dad.”

I stopped breathing.

“Harold died four years ago.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“There’s a date on it.”

“What date?”

“Tomorrow.”

I stared at the clock.

11:43 PM.

Tomorrow was the date written on the card.

“Daniel,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Read me what it says.”

He took a breath.

Then he began.

“Dear Dolores…”

His voice trembled.

“I know you will probably never see this…”

I closed my eyes.

Because Harold had been dead for four years.

And there was no way he could have written something dated tomorrow.

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