I spent my whole life mailing letters to the address tied to my missing mother, always clinging to hope—until I finally received a reply that devastated me.
I held up the newest letter.
Another from last year.
Another from this week, my final one.
“Why are these unopened?” I asked.
She looked startled.
“I was not at the house for a while. I had surgery and moved into assisted living. A neighbor collected my mail. I came back to clear the place because the house is being sold.”
She took a folded page from her coat.
I held up the newest letter.
“When did you read this?”
“Yesterday morning.”
She took a folded page from her coat.
“I wrote back the same day. That is the letter the courier was bringing.”
