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.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
Then I saw a crooked sun in yellow crayon on a white envelope, and the room went blurry.
Inside were letters.
I knew that sun.
I had drawn it when I was seven.
Inside were letters.
Hundreds of them.
Cheap envelopes, folded notebook paper, birthday cards, all bundled with string.
Some had my childish handwriting across the front. Some were in pencil, some in blue pen, some in the thick uneven letters I used when I wanted my words to look grown up.
There was the letter where I wrote that I got picked to read to the class.
