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.
“Not yet.”
The house was smaller than I had imagined.
He kissed my forehead.
“Call me if you need me.”
The drive took 20 minutes.
The house was smaller than I had imagined.
Pale blue siding, a narrow porch, wind chimes by the door.
Inside, it smelled of dust and lemon polish.
Inside were my letters from that year tied in ribbon.
She led me to a spare bedroom.
Along one wall were shelves, and on those shelves were more boxes.
Bankers boxes, hat boxes, old biscuit tins, each marked with a year in black ink.
