Inside, it said:
“Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who stood at the mailbox for me.
For eleven years, you wrote me cards and never signed your name. This year, I’m signing mine.
I think about you every single day. You are so loved.
Love always,
Your daughter, Hannah.”
And in the bottom corner, she’d drawn a little flower.
A violet. Three petals up. Two petals down. A little curl at the bottom of the stem.
It wasn’t perfect. The petals were a little lopsided. The stem was too long. She’d clearly practiced it a few times.
But it was the most beautiful flower I had ever seen.
There was something else in the envelope. Something small and stiff. I slid it out.
It was a black-and-white picture. Grainy and blurry, the kind of picture you can barely make sense of. A little white shape curled up in a dark circle.
