I make my way through the busy café area, navigating between tables of couples sharing heart-shaped pastries and friends exchanging small gifts.
The bakery feels alive in a way it hasn’t since before Mom got sick—buzzing with conversation, laughter, the gentle clink of ceramic cups against saucers.
“There she is,” Raven beams as I approach. Her twins, Alexander and Arabella, are strapped to her chest in a complicated-looking carrier that somehow accommodates both nine-month-olds. “The pregnant pastry queen herself.”
“Sorry I’m late.” I slide into the chair across from them, immediately reaching for one of the biscotti on the plate at the center of the table. My constant hunger has become something of a joke among us. “The doctor’s appointment ran long.”
“Everything okay?” Piper asks, her eyes narrowing with immediate concern.
I nod through a mouthful of almond-studded cookie. “Perfect. Completely healthy. Raffaele insisted on asking the doctor about fifty questions, though.” I sigh. “It took forever to drag him out of there. He acts as if he has to squeeze everything into each appointment. Which is ridiculous when he insisted on private care and has the doctor’s address and cellphone.”
Both women exchange knowing glances. Raffaele’s protective nature has only intensified since we confirmed my pregnancy, transforming him from a vigilant husband to something closer to an obsessive guardian angel.
Not that I mind. With everything we’ve been through, his protectiveness feels like safety, not control.
“Matteo’s the same,” Raven rolls her eyes fondly, adjusting Alexander who’s trying to grab her earring. “Nine months in and he still panics if one of them sneezes. I found him researching pediatric neurosurgeons at three in the morning because Arabella bumped her head on her crib.”
I reach for another biscotti—my fifth? Sixth? I’ve lost count—and laugh. “That sounds exactly like what I have to look forward to.”
“How’s the morning sickness?” Piper asks, pushing the plate closer to me.
“Gone, thank God.” I cradle my bump, still amazed at the life growing inside me. “Now I’m just hungry all the time. Poor Susan can barely keep the pantry stocked.”
The conversation flows easily between us, a friendship that still surprises me with its depth. A year ago, I was alone exceptfor a sister who secretly hated me. Now I have this—two women who understand both my world and the men who brought us into it.
I’m halfway through explaining my latest craving—pickles dipped in chocolate sauce—when the bell above the door chimes. A delivery man steps inside, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the counter where Molly points in my direction.
“Mrs. Alina Brewer-Russo?” he calls, approaching our table with a small package and clipboard in hand.
I swallow my bite of biscotti, confused. “That’s me.”
“I’ve got a registered letter for you here,” he says. “Just need your signature.” He thrusts the clipboard at me, his demeanor suggesting this is just one of many deliveries in his day.
But something cold slithers down my spine as I scribble my name. Registered letters rarely bring good news. The last official document I received was the police report confirming Sabrina’s death had been ruled a suicide—the story Raffaele arranged to cover the truth.
As her only surviving family member, I inherited everything. And, well, I donated it all to a charity that helps people with mental health issues. They have programs Sabrina could have benefited from, so it was fitting to make a donation in her name.
The delivery man hands me a thick envelope and departs with a curt nod. The papers feel heavy in my hands, the sender’s address making my heart stutter—Mr. Clark, Mom’s lawyer.
“What is it?” Raven asks, bouncing Arabella gently as the baby fusses.
“I’m not sure.” My fingers tremble as I break the seal, sliding out several folded pages. The top one is a brief note from Mr. Clark on his official letterhead.
Dear Mrs. Brewer-Russo,
In accordance with the final wishes of your mother, Sophia Brewer, I was instructed to deliver the enclosed letter on the first anniversary of her passing. My sincerest apologies for any distress this may cause.
Respectfully,
Mr. Clark
My heart pounds against my ribs as I unfold the other papers; a letter in Mom’s familiar handwriting. The sight of it alone is enough to make my vision blur. I haven’t seen her handwriting since going through her recipe cards months ago, and the sudden appearance of it feels like a ghost materializing before me.
The first line steals the breath from my lungs.
My dearest Alina,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve been gone a year, and it’s time for me to finally be honest with you. I know it’s cowardly of me to be honest in death when I couldn’t in life…
