Quickly tapping out a text to Li Na, Stella canceled their breakfast plans. The ever so innocent box, which sat on the floor next to her, begged to be open. She nudged it tentatively with her foot, expecting it to do something besides sit there. The rare moment when she caught sight of the box during the night it felt like it was watching her. Its secrets within whispered at her to open them, let them explore the world, to let them swallow her whole.

"Hey, Stella." Alex came into the locker room. "What you up to today?"

She eyed the feminine features of her coworker, who had taken up to leaning against one of the lockers. Stella knew that it was no coincidence that their shirt was threatening to expose their stomach. "Sleeping," she responded as she pulled her eyes away from the lean figure. "Do you want a ride home or something?"

"Did you drive here? I thought you were a walker?" Alex leaned forward with sudden interest.

"I moved." She shrugged. "Do you want it or not?" Stella picked up the box and started to head towards the door.

"Yeah," Alex said as they hurried to catch up. "So, where'd you move to?" they asked as the couple got into the elevator.

"Wynnfield Heights." She frowned at the box. Was it shaking? No, that was her.

"Do you want help with that? It looks heavy?" Alex asked as they picked up on Stella's shaking.

"No!" She flinched at the harshness of her tone. "No," she repeated softer, "I got it."

"Geeze, Stella. What's in that thing? You've been touchy about it all night."

"Nothing important." The box cut into her chest as she held it a little closer.

Alex shook their head in disbelief. "Whatever, tell me when you're ready."

The pair left the hospital with practiced ease before getting into the Jeep. Stella left the package in the back seat, where it taunted her with its silence. "Fuck you too," she said to quietly for Alex to hear her.

Alex fiddled with the radio as Stella settled into the driver's seat. Finally finding a pop station they were satisfied with, Alex leaned back into the seat. "So how was Alaska?" they asked as the Jeep pulled out of the garage.

Remembering the snow-capped mountains, fields of flowers, and complete and utter peace, she smiled. "Absolutely wonderful. How was the hospital?"

"The usual," Alex replied with a shrug. "Did you and that friend of yours do it?"

Stella took the turn a little harder than she meant to. "Why do you keep asking?"

Alex rolled their eyes at the question. "Because no normal friends go to the woods and not hook up."

"And what business of yours is it?"

"Can't a person make conversation?" they snapped back. After a moment's silence, Alex put her hand on top of Stella's. "Look, I'm sorry."

Stella tightened her grip on the gear shift, this was one of the rare moments when she hated having a manual transmission. "No, you're not." She shifted gears as she slowed for the red light.

Alex let out a heavy sigh. "Believe what you want, then." They took their hand back, placing it in their lap.

Occasionally Alex would look over at Stella then open their mouth to say something, before shutting it and steadily looking at the city again. Almost fifteen minutes later, Stella pulled up in front of Alex's apartment building.

"Do you want to come in?" Alex offered as she opened the door.

Looking at Alex, it was hard not to want to. Shortly after Stella started her fellowship, she and Alex had gotten very well acquainted with each other and how to feel good with the other. Going in might give her some welcome relief from the box, once again reminding her of its presence. As she made up her mind, her phone vibrated. "No," she replied checking Keith's good morning text. "I'll see you tonight." She drove away, leaving Alex staring at her in shock.

Arriving at her own apartment, Stella put the box on the kitchen counter. She read over Will's letter one more time, mouthing the words as she read along. First, she took out what was likely her mother's old journals. They were old brown spiral-bound notebooks and their pages had turned yellow with the passage of time. She placed those off to the side. Next was a photo album, a quick look told her that it was the Pennhurst family. That, too, went to sit with her mother's journals. Next were letters. The first two were from Cole and Jason and with perhaps a bit more tenderness, Stella put them with the rest. A letter from someone calling themselves Nana also joined the pile, followed quickly by one from William Pennhurst Jr.

With trembling hands, she pulled out the one letter that had been on her mind all night. The phrase Inmate Mail was stamped across the front, marking it as the one from her mother. Blinking away a few tears, she traced her name. She wiped her eyes before her tears could stain the letter. Before she could change her mind, she ripped the envelope open and pulled out the contents.

Dear Stella,

I don't know where to start this. I've tried multiple times to start, but I can't seem to find the right word. I never expected to have to write the daughter that the state took from me. I never expected your father to find me again. And  I never expected him to ask me to do this. But, I have to say, life has never been what I expected.

Billy told me a bit of how your lunch went. It took him a bit, but I think he understands that he probably scared you now. You should try talking to him. I always thought Billy was a good guy.

Since I still don't know how to talk to you about anything, I think I'll start about Luna. I haven't seen her since I gave birth to her, but I remember her being such a small little thing. I think she was tinier than you were! My parents agreed to take her in, and I'm glad they did. They said that they would try to find you, but dad said that he hadn't been able to until Liz got involved with the family.

Anyways, Luna will be ten in a few months. And there are things I want to make sure you know about me and her father before she finds out from someone else. I'm not sure who she would find out from, but I'd rather her learn it from you if I can't tell her myself.

Her father was a prison guard here. That's why everyone says I was raped. And I see their point; he was in a position of power over me. I still say it was completely consensual, our relationship. And it would likely still be going on today if I hadn't gotten pregnant. You see, Eric Johnson, that's her dad's name, by the way, was a new guard around twelve years ago. We could all tell that he was green, any experienced inmate can spot a new guard; they're twitchier than the rest. Despite my heckling, like all the other girls, he never lost his smile. He always asked me why I had to do things that way and make them difficult. And even though he had to be rough with me, he also treated me like I was human. And, for what I'm in here for, everyone treats you like the lowest form of life on earth. I deserve it, though. What I did was horrible. And, I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am that you had to pay a price for it too.

Eric was locked away shortly after a paternity test was done. It wasn't hard to figure out that someone who came to the prison regularly had knocked me up, and they made me take a paternity test. Then they made all the men submit samples. I didn't see Eric again after that day. His mother, Felicia, contacted me about taking Luna in. She didn't think she could do it, though. Felicia was getting on in age, she's older than my parents. Or she was, I don't know if she's still alive. She tried to get family members to take her in, but no one stepped forward.

For the first time in years, I finally reached out to my parents. I didn't want Luna to pay the same price that you had to, not for my actions. That wouldn't be fair to her. They tried to get my brother to take her, his name is Greg, but he refused too. Said he didn't want my love child. Either of them. Don't feel too bad about that, he's always been a bastard. My parents agreed to take her in after that. They've been raising her, but my mom died last year. And dad couldn't get her to school, so the agency out there became involved.

They tried to get things better, but dad just couldn't do it. They finally got the court involved, and they want her in a new home by the end of summer. I didn't want Luna to pay your price, so I asked Liz to try to find you. I gave her every single detail I knew about you.

That wasn't much. A birthday, and the hospital you were born in. I had nothing more than that to find you with. DHS would never give me any information. If someone had adopted you, we might never have found you. And, as happy as I am that you're taking Luna in, I'm just as upset that no one did the same to you. It is the happiest and saddest I have felt in a very long time. And, I guess that brings me to what I wanted to write you about. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I did what I did to you. I have a hard time writing it out because I am so horrified with myself. I don't know if you want it. I don't know if it's a question that's kept you up at night. But I know I want to tell you things from my side. If you want to know, here it is. If not, throw out the rest of the paper.

The day you were born was one of the happiest I remember being. The doctor said you were a big baby, nine and three-quarter pounds and twenty inches long. I believed it, you were so hard to push out. You took your sweet time, too. Twenty hours I was in labor and delivery waiting for you. You just weren't in any rush.

By that time, though, I had already started down the path to that fateful day. I was paranoid, and didn't trust anyone. I thought the hospital was going to take you away from me, so I insisted that they let you stay in the room with me. The staff finally relented and moved one of those hospital crib things into my room. I took care of all of your needs. Changed your diapers, fed you, everything a good mom was supposed to.

I also did things a good mom isn't supposed to do. I got angry and yelled at you for crying. When we went home, I often left you at home while I went out to make money. I couldn't hold down a steady job at that point, and between stints at McDonald's and Burger King, I sold drugs. It was the only steady source of income I had.

I also got involved with bad men. They hit me, and threatened to kill you. Or hurt you. I always kicked them out at this point. I didn't want anything happening to my precious star. I always used to call you that, by the way. Something you probably didn't know. Since I couldn't keep a job, we bounced around to different apartments. Sometimes, we lived with men and things were good there until they weren't. Sometimes, I lived with the people I pushed for. In between, we lived on the streets. I always hated being on the street with you; I was so worried that the state was going to come take you away. I wouldn't let you talk to anyone. I always made sure that you couldn't wander off if I had to leave you alone. And then I always rushed back to make sure that you were ok.

We lived like that for the first three years of your life. When May came around, I remember we went to a thrift store to get you some clothes. You always grew so fast, I felt like I was at the store every other day trying to get you some clothes you'd stay in for more than two or three months. There was a bear there, that you absolutely had to have. You started carrying him around the store, and were calling him Mr. Stuffy by the time I'd found a couple dresses for you. Yet, no matter how I tried to make the cash work, I couldn't figure out how to pay for everything and the bear. I pretended to put Mr. Stuffy back, but when you weren't looking, I stuffed it down my shirt. You were so happy to see it when we got home and told me you loved me.

That day was when I got really bad. All throughout those years of homelessness and paranoia, I had been hearing voices. I'd been having delusions of so many things I thought I needed to protect you from. They all seemed so real, and scary. When we got home, before I gave you the bear, I found an eviction notice posted to our door. I was so upset, because I had just managed to get a decent paying job at a call center. I was convinced that this would last, and I'd get us out of this place. Or I'd keep us in it.

I went to work that night, ready to get on the phones. But they fired me that night. I went back home, where you had fallen asleep with a book in front of you. Teaching you to read had been one of the highlights of my time with you. The way you sucked in every word about the Princess and the Pea, it was like you were hungry for so much more. When you woke up. you told me that you were going to become a princess so that we would ever have to worry about a place to live.

I couldn't tell you that the world didn't work like that. But I could yell it. And, despite not having been the best mother to you before that, that became the first night I hit you. You ran away from me crying and said I was being mean mommy. I only got worse the rest of the month. I couldn't find a job. And the guy who I used to push crack for had been arrested. I couldn't find anyone else who would let me push it, they were convinced that I'd ratted out my guy.

Shortly before the end, in a moment of startling clarity, I took you to your father's old apartment. I don't know why I went there. He had told me, sometime around when you were conceived, that his parents rented it for him so it would be easier to work on his master's degree. I tried to convince him to run away to New York with me, to chase after his dreams of becoming a photographer, but he wouldn't have it. Of course, it had been four years since I'd last seen him. Some strange woman answered the door. She was some real high class snobby looking bitch, definitely from the right side of the tracks. She was there, in her J. Crew clothes, looking at me like I was the scum of the Earth.

I probably looked like it. I hadn't showered in days, I think. My hair was greasy and disgusting, and I hadn't showered in a week. My clothes were old and worn, and patched in places. Ms. High-class snob looked at me, and  I fled. I'd assumed Billy had moved out or moved on. I only just found out that was his on again and off again girlfriend, Sylvia. They had just gotten back together, again, that day. The one time I could have caused a scene, and kept you safe from me, I didn't. I fled from Sylvia. She was a high-class Tiffany's sort of girl. And I was Allison from the Breakfast Club, but far scarier looking. And with a kid.

Billy thinks he would have taken you in that day, had he known. It wouldn't have been hard for him to think you were his, you always looked so much like him. He says that even if he couldn't have taken care of you, his mother always wanted a girl. She would have. Of course, the reality is, neither of us would have known what he would have done had I stayed. I know if I stayed that I might not have done what I did to you a few days later.

The next few days were bad. I still couldn't find anything, and our eviction was looming even closer. I couldn't live with you on the street again. And those voices got worse. They told me to keep you safe, I had to get rid of you. That you couldn't live on the street, some pedophile would kidnap you. And everyone was a pedophile, even I was. As far as I know, I never touched you. I never looked at you like that. But those voices said you should be hidden from the world. They also said you should join the stars.

Finally, I listened to them. I don't even remember doing it. I remember being covered in your blood. I remember finding the carving knife I'd done it with, covered in blood too. But I couldn't find you anywhere. I didn't know what I did with you, and I was so worried that the state had come for you. I also didn't understand where all the blood came from. But at the same time I knew it was yours. While trying to piece it altogether, I had the TV on. The news showed a picture of you, hooked up to all this medical equipment, asking for any information as to who you were.

I didn't call the police, maybe I should have. Instead, still covered in blood, I went to the hospital and said I was your mother. They wouldn't let me in to see you. I don't remember what happened after that either, but I know the police came. I know they charged me with attempted murder. I didn't believe them, at first. I denied it. Then they showed me all of the evidence. Piled it on thick, and I started to remember what happened. I remembered you trying to run from me. I remember you promising me you'd be a good girl. And I remember thinking that this was the only way I could keep you safe from everyone.

I submitted a guilty plea and waived my right to trial. I gave the DA the name of every single crack manufacturer in the city, in exchange for nothing. I wanted as much punishment as I could get, while still hoping to save myself some. The judge sentenced me to forty years, the maximum sentence he could give me. I think he would have given me more if he could. I would have taken it.

After my sentencing, I finally underwent a psychiatric evaluation. They diagnosed me with post-partum onset schizoaffective disorder. They diagnosed me with schizoaffective, bipolar type. I've been on medication for it for years now, and I still can't fathom how I was able to do that.

Those three years make no sense to me, and  I don't think they ever will.

I was so detached from everything, and so easily swayed by my own mind. In some ways, it was fun. And exciting. And I loved it when the world was alive with sound and color. But the doctors say that was mania, and that was bad. They say my moods swung down, too. And the delusions and hallucinations agitated me, to no end. I was always talking to them, until the medication started to work.

It's not perfect. And my thoughts are rarely cohesive. I can only keep things together to a certain point.

I wanted to say that I never wanted to actually hurt you. I wanted to keep you safe.

And I love you.

The letter fell to the floor, papers scattering in different directions.

Stella wobbled over to the couch, lying down on it. Hugging the throw pillow, she quickly soaked it with tears. In that letter had been so many things she hadn't known. Remembering her own manias, she could understand how her mother thought. It made perfect sense, and yet it made absolutely none.

Her thoughts drifted towards her medicine cabinet. She still had half a month's worth of all her prescriptions. Mixing them, that might bring an end to this. It wouldn't be the first time that Stella had overdosed, and it would be so quiet. Everything would stop. Even better, there was no Howie to save her this time. He was across the country; he couldn't rescue her this time.

Pulling her thoughts away from the cabinet, she sent a quick text.