Return to Sender

by Stephanie Parente

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Siblings; Romance

Synopsis

Opposites attract in this heartwarming debut romance about grief, sisterhood, and finding love when—and where—you least expect it.

“This book will be your shoulder to lean on, your friend to laugh with, the man you can’t help but fall in love with. I was completely swept away by Return to Sender. I read it in one joyous, tear-filled day.”—Cara Bastone, author of Ready or Not

Violet is usually an optimist. But between her father’s sudden death and the overnight responsibility of caring for her rebellious teenage sister, Phoebe, she’s barely holding it together. Then Phoebe discovers a love letter, never delivered and returned to the sisters’ address, begging its recipient to give him another chance. Phoebe seems excited for the first time since their dad died, and Violet will do anything to keep that smile on her face. Together, they set out to find the letter’s author, hoping to rectify a derailed happily-ever-after.

Despite Dex being rather abrasive (valid) and more than a little enigmatic (intriguing?), Phoebe talks him into a cross-country road trip to put the letter in the right hands. Violet is thrilled to see Phoebe thriving again. With every pit stop, they chip away at Dex’s moody exterior, and Violet realizes she might like what lies beneath . . . a lot. But what happens when they finally reach their destination—and Dex’s ex-girlfriend? Is what they’ve discovered on the road strong enough to make it back home?

Release date: July 21, 2026

Publisher: The Dial Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

One

Boston, MA

Someone once told me optimism was genetic. My dad forged a path to the bright side and I followed close behind, nearly sunburned from the glare. I lived in everlasting warmth, naïvely believing it belonged to me.

After nine months in the dark, it felt like maybe I’d never seen the sun at all.

I felt furthest from my dad’s optimism walking through the doors of Farnum High School. The scent—an amalgam of cheap perfume, body spray, and cleaning product—stung the back of my throat. My footsteps echoed, synchronizing with disembodied squeaking sneakers from the nearby gymnasium. I’d memorized the way by my third visit.

The office had to be a solid ten degrees warmer than the rest of the school, even with open windows.

“Violet,” the woman behind the front desk, Gloria, crowed. She gestured to the visitors’ log, as if I hadn’t done this a dozen times. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

I bent to scribble my and Phoebe’s names. My smile didn’t fit right. “Oh, you know.”

“Boy, do I.” Hers was more convincing. “Have a seat. Principal Chambers will be with you in a jiff.”

Phoebe sat alone in a row of stiff chairs, isolating and far enough from the windows to be both embarrassing and unbearable, scowling at her lap instead of meeting my eyes. I veered for her. Her choppy pink hair spilled from a short ponytail, messily framing her face; multicolored fingernails picked at a rip in her jeans; her face was scrubbed clean of the usual raccoon makeup, eyes red. Dry blood stained the front of her—my—Fleetwood Mac tee.

I sat beside her. “Seriously?”

“He started it,” she fired at once, though her tone lacked the usual flames.

“You have two weeks left of school.”

“He started it.”

I pressed my fingers into my eyes, exhaling sharply. “I had to leave work again, Phoebe. This can’t keep happening.”

The bell rang overhead, sharp and deafening, but Phoebe didn’t flinch. I resisted the urge to ask for details. I’d been stuck on the outside of her life for nine months, desperate for a way in; you can’t force a fourteen-year-old to practice healthy communication if they’re hell-bent on staying inside their own head.

Three things: We have each other, you have a job to provide for her, a roof over your heads.

Three positives to combat the rest. It had become a mantra, something keeping me afloat when the rest of my world took on water. Lately, I struggled with three. Not great, seeing as I’d cut it down from five.

I decided to risk a question: “Are you okay?”

Phoebe’s scowl deepened, so I pointed to her bloody shirt. She spared it a quick glance. “It’s not mine,” she said.

“The blood or the shirt?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Sorry.”

“That’s what you’re sorry about?”

“Well, I know how much you like this shirt.”

I blew out a sharp breath, relenting to the urge. “What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied. I sank farther into the stiff seat, defeat inching up my neck in a warm flush. Still, I knew I’d keep trying. Even if it wore me to dust, I’d make the effort. I cared as loudly as possible and she pushed me away in equal measure. On bad days, I’d think it would be nice if she reciprocated in a way I understood, but then the unfairness would sneak up on me and I’d shove the thought to the furthest corner of my mind. Grief has no room for selfishness, especially when teenagers are involved.

I wanted to keep poking. The relentless bright side in me insisted I could get through somehow, but the logical side of my brain reached for the advice from my best friend, Arden, or my therapist, or Phoebe’s therapist—give her space to grieve and trust the process. If her process was anywhere near as nightmarish as mine, I wouldn’t hold my breath.

We sat in silence. Phoebe inspected her chipped nail polish and cast an apathetic glance toward the clock on the wall. I bit my tongue so hard, I tasted blood.

The door directly across from us swung open and out swept Principal Chambers, all long legs, blond curls, and the Reformation dress I’d had bookmarked on the website for over a year. Meanwhile, my hair was windblown because the AC in my car didn’t work, and my outfit cost a whopping thirty bucks from TJ Maxx. I did my best not to shrink in her presence, but as an elementary school teacher and former honor roll student, principals were my kryptonite.

“Violet,” she said, offering a breezy smile. “Nice to see you again. And so soon.”

Phoebe bristled. I forced a smile and said, “Hi.”

“Come on in. Let’s chat.” Her tone sent a shiver down my spine. Phoebe and I both stood. Principal Chambers said, “Oh, no. You stay, Phoebe. I’d like to speak to your sister alone.”

Phoebe spun to me, panic flashing in her eyes. I swallowed hard and curled my hands into fists so they’d stop shaking.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. She wiped her face clear of emotion and sat, folding her arms tightly over her chest. “It’ll be okay.”

Principal Chambers’s office burned itself into my memory eight months ago, but since then I’d spent so much time here, the lightly padded chair had practically formed to my ass and I knew to avoid eye contact with the framed photo of her city council husband who stole a parking spot from me at the grocery store last year.

The air-conditioning was new. Thinking of Phoebe sitting in the stifling heat just outside the door, my contempt skyrocketed.

“So,” Principal Chambers said, easing into her desk chair. She folded her hands, eyes swimming with performative pity. “How are you doing, Violet?”

“Great,” I answered. The nearly imperceptible flick of her eyebrow had me backtracking. “I mean, fine.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Both of you.” My fingernails dug into the arms of the chair. I forced another smile. “Losing a parent is tragic.”

My uvula tied itself in a knot. Swallowing over it, I said, “We’re getting through it.”

“Hmm.” She leaned back in her chair, eyeing me. “I understand this hasn’t been an easy transition. But this is the twelfth time I’ve had to call you this year.”

I flinched. “I don’t think it’s twelve.”

“Twelve,” she said, tone clipped. “Phoebe’s behavior has become increasingly erratic. Today, she nearly broke a boy’s nose. The only reason she’s not suspended is because several eyewitnesses claim she was defending herself.”

My fingers dug farther into the chair at that word: claim. As if she didn’t believe it, even slightly.

“She was defending herself?” I repeated. Phoebe’s words flitted through my head: Don’t worry about it. As if I’d be able to think about anything else. “What happened?”

“You know kids,” Principal Chambers replied. Her flippant tone rankled and I had to grind my teeth so I wouldn’t lash out. “Words were said—it remains unclear exactly what these words were. However, Phoebe was the one to resort to violence.”

“Okay,” I said. “So, what happens to him?”

“Don’t worry. He’s fine.”

“I’m not worried. I want to know he won’t mess with my sister again.”

“Violet.” Never had my name sounded so condescending. “Let’s focus on Phoebe.”

I clenched my jaw and tried to come up with three things, but my mind indulged in how good it would feel to slash her tires. I’d had the problematic child conversation with a number of parents and it was always a minefield, so I kept things gentle with them. Meanwhile, Principal Chambers looked about ready to break into villainous laughter. She relished this.

“Her behavior is beyond concerning and has only been escalating,” she said. My vision drifted over her shoulder, focus locking on the soft hum of the air conditioner. “Have you considered seeking professional help?”

My eyes snapped to hers. “Excuse me?”

“I have the names of some wonderful psychiatrists in the area,” she charged on. I released my grip, fingers throbbing, heat surging up my neck.

“Is this a joke?”

“I can assure you, there is nothing funny about this situation.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. The audacity alone is hilarious.”