The letter hangs crooked a crooked smile

The letter hangs crooked, a crooked smile

pinned to the fridge, where light bends

around the crumpled edges.

She reads it again, bright-eyed, fingers trembling,

a bloom of pride—then eyes drift.

Away from me.

I trace the crease in the paper,

wonder what knots in her throat

I’ll never reach to untie.

This isn’t joy, not quite.

It’s a quiet warning

hiding beneath the fold,

like a crack

waiting to grow.