My Apartment Burned Down. My Parents Said, “Not Our Problem.” Then the Fire Investigator Called.

But you’re still my daughter. You’re still my baby. Please come visit me. Please let me explain. I’m still your mother. Love, Mom.

I read it twice. Then I wrote my own letter—not to send, just for myself:

Patricia, You were my mother. But the woman who raised me would never have tried to kill me for money. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t need continue reading …