The letter came in a plain white envelope, Viola’s name written on it in Ida’s familiar, looping handwriting. Viola smiled as she sorted through her mail, tossing bills and ads aside to open Ida’s letter first. Ida’s letters always brightened her day.
She slid her finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Her smile froze as she read the words. “Please don’t visit me anymore.
I’ve changed the locks. I need peace and quiet now. Don’t call.
Don’t write. Just leave me alone.”
The world seemed to stop. The page shook in her hands.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the cheerful spring birds outside her window. “What?” Viola whispered to her empty room. “This can’t be right.”
She read it again.
And again. Each time hoping the words would change into something that made sense. They didn’t.
Viola paced her apartment, clutching the letter tightly. Her mind raced back to their last visit. They had baked cookies.
Ida had shared her trick with vanilla extract—add a bit more than the recipe says. She hugged Viola tight when she left, like always. Nothing had seemed wrong.
Nothing. With shaky hands, Viola grabbed her phone and called her older sister, Theresa. She answered on the fourth ring.
“What?” Theresa’s voice sounded sharp, distracted. “Did you get a letter from Ida?” Viola asked, skipping any hello. A pause.
Then, “Yeah. About new locks, no visits, no explanation.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” Viola insisted. “Why would she—”
“Look, Viola, I’m busy.
People cut ties. Maybe she’s done with us.”
“Done with us? Theresa, she raised us.
After Mom and Dad—”
“I know our story, thanks.” Theresa’s voice got sharper. “I have a late meeting. We’ll deal with it later.”
The call ended fast.
Viola stared at her phone, feeling worse. Theresa was always practical, but her coldness felt wrong. She called Alberta next.
Her younger sister answered right away. “Viola? I was just gonna call you.”
“Let me guess.
You got a letter from Ida?”
Alberta’s voice softened. “Yes. I tried calling her, but it went to voicemail.
I don’t get what’s happening.”
“Me neither,” Viola said, sinking onto her couch. “Theresa got one too.”
“Something’s off,” Alberta said firmly. “Ida would never do this.”
Viola’s worry grew.
This wasn’t just her—it was all of them. Ida had raised them after their parents died. She had been their rock, their safe place, their home.
All three sisters visited her every week since moving out. She wouldn’t do this without a reason. “I’m driving to her place tomorrow,” Viola decided.
“She said not to,” Alberta reminded her gently. “I don’t care. Her health’s been bad lately, and I can’t ignore this feeling something’s wrong.”
“Tell me what you find,” Alberta said.
The next day, Viola drove the familiar road to Ida’s house, her stomach tight with nerves. She brought banana bread, like always for their weekend visits. It was still warm, wrapped in a checkered towel, filling her car with the cozy smell of cinnamon and bananas.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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