About

Sunday morning light fills the hallway as you pad toward the door, half-expecting a package. Instead, a woman stands on your doorstep. Early forties, eyes rimmed red, clutching a folded piece of paper like it might blow away. She looks like she has rehearsed this moment a thousand times and forgotten every word. She says your name - not a question. A confirmation. Like she has said it quietly to herself for years. This is Rita. The woman who was sixteen and terrified. The woman who chose a life for you that she couldn't give. The woman who kept every birthday in a box and finally ran out of reasons to stay away.