I checked the mail today.
A few pieces of junk mail. A credit card bill. And one envelope with my name and address handwritten on it, in familiar handwriting.
I told myself, this couldn’t be. She doesn’t know where I live. She said she doesn’t know anything; that’s why she gave my friend that letter to give to me. It’s just a coincidence.
I hesitated for awhile. But then I opened it.
There was a single piece of paper inside, with pictures of gravestones. No letter, no note, no explanation. Just a paper with different gravestones for me to choose.
I looked at the envelope again. My mother has always had a distinctive way of writing certain letters of the alphabet. The writing was the same.
My mother wrote out that envelope. She knows where I live. She lied to everyone.
Whose gravestone am I supposed to be choosing?
I am scared. My hands are still shaking, and I can’t stop crying for more than five minutes before I break down again.
She is coming for me. And I don’t want to die.