Inside was a stack of printed papers, some yellowed at the edges, others fresh from a home printer.

“What is this trash?” Thomas muttered, crossing his arms.

“These are the emails from sixteen years ago,” Rebecca said, looking at the floor.

“The ones you sent me when we found out about Caroline’s arm during the twenty-week ultrasound.”

Caroline pulled the first sheet of paper from the stack.

The room was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“Read the one from October fourteenth,” Rebecca said softly.

Caroline’s eyes scanned the page, her face remaining entirely blank.

I leaned over her shoulder to read along with her.

The sender address was Thomas’s old college email account.

The words printed on the paper were stark and cold.

*I didn’t sign up for a broken kid, Rebecca,* the email read.

*If you keep it, you’re on your own. I’m not spending my life paying for surgeries and physical therapy.*

“That was sixteen years ago,” Thomas said quickly, his voice high. “People say things they don’t mean when they’re panicked.”