My eyes caught on the first line, written in Poppy’s wobbly, careful handwriting: “Dear Nora, if you are reading this, I am sorry I lied to you for six years.” My knees gave out, and Caleb caught me. I read on, shaking. “I never told you the truth about the night Dad’s car crashed. I was there, and I have kept a secret that was never mine to keep.”

Caleb knelt beside me in the empty corridor. “She begged me to wait until you were strong enough,” he whispered. “She said you would blame yourself first, and she could not bear it.” Down the hall, a nurse called out urgently, and a surgeon in blue scrubs hurried toward us. Caleb stood, gripping my arm, and I saw his lips form the words, “Please, Nora, finish reading the page.”