Chapter 1

Inside the bustling burger place, my dad, Jeremy Fisher, frowned as he stared at the 17 love letters that were neatly arranged in front of him.

The look in his eyes felt unfamiliar. It looked nothing like the tender expression Mom always wore when she stared at those letters.

A few seconds later, Dad sighed and gently patted my head. "Once Wendy feels better, I'll pick both of you up and bring you home. Wendy is easy to get along with. She's nothing like your mom, who only knows how to threaten me with these love letters."

My mom's name was Jillian Clinton. She once told me that Wendy Sutton was her best friend from college.

Feeling confused, I'd asked, "Do I have to share my husband with my best friend? In that case, I don't want a best friend!"

Mom hadn't responded, but she'd suddenly looked like she was about to cry.

On Mom's birthday, Wendy had flipped the cake over with tears in her eyes. Gripping Dad's hand, she cried, "Please send me away, Jeremy. I've seen what happens ten years from now. Jillian went mad! She killed Colin and me with her own hands!"

For the rest of the day, Dad had stayed silent. He stood alone by the window, smoking one cigarette after another.

When the morning came, Mom and I were sent away instead.

"Try to be more understanding, Jillian. Once Wendy's feeling better, I'll bring the both of you back home," Dad had said.

Mom hadn't asked him for anything. The only things she had taken with her were the love letters Dad had written to her. She took all 17 of them—not a single one was left behind.

When the lightbulb in our new home broke, she sold one of the letters to Dad to pay for a replacement. When I needed a costume for my school play, she sold him another one. When winter came, and we needed a new quilt, she sold another.

The love letters were neatly stacked inside a drawer. Within a year, we had to use 16 of them to keep our shabby little apartment from falling apart.

I snapped back to reality and looked at Dad. With a small smile, I said, "It's okay, Dad. Mom said that living on our own is actually pretty nice. She doesn't want to go back anymore."

Dad froze for a moment. Then, he let out a cold scoff. "Your mother really went to great lengths to put that idea in your head."

Just then, his assistant, Thomas, leaned over to him and whispered, "Ms. Sutton found out about the love letters, Mr. Fisher. She's lost control of her emotions and is threatening to end her own life."

Dad's expression instantly darkened. The next moment, he tore all 17 of Mom's love letters into pieces.

"Tell Wendy to stop crying. The letters are gone for good," he declared coldly.

Tears streamed down my face as I frantically rushed forward to stop him.

"Don't tear them up! These mean a lot to Mom!" I pleaded. "She's been telling me these stories since I was little!"

Dad caressed my cheek, his face completely blank. "They're nothing more than old memories. They don't mean anything anymore."

He turned to Thomas and said, "Take Stella home, Thomas. I'm going to check on Wendy."

I watched him walk away. Then, I crouched down and carefully picked up the torn pieces of paper. As I placed every fragment into my bag, I couldn't stop myself from crying.

These letters meant everything to Mom. I couldn't leave a single piece behind.