“My mom sent me a card! She didn’t forget! She just sent it late!”
I put down the dish towel I was holding. I made myself smile.
“Oh, honey,” I said. “That’s wonderful.”
She read it out loud to me three times. Then she read it to Mark. Then she read it to Mr. Hops. Then she took it upstairs and slept with it under her pillow.
I went into the laundry room, shut the door, and cried into a pile of clean towels.
I did it every year after that.
For eleven years.
Every birthday. Every Christmas. A card would arrive with a Tucson postmark, written in that round, loopy handwriting. Signed “Love always, Mom.” And always, always, in the bottom corner, a little violet.
When Hannah turned ten, the card said, “I’m so proud of you for making the honor roll.” When she turned thirteen, it said, “You’re a teenager now! I hope you know you can always be yourself.” When she was sixteen, it said, “Drive safe, my beautiful girl.”
