“Things from when we were little,” Grace said quietly.
Amanda unfolded the first page.
“Dear Mom,
Today I lost my first tooth. Grandma said you probably would’ve laughed because I kept checking the mirror.”
She stared at it.
“Things from when we were little.”
Amelia handed her another.
Age seven.
“Dear Mom,
I can ride my bike now. Grandma ran behind me even though her knees hurt.”
Another.
Age eight.
“Dear Mom,
Grace got scared during the thunderstorm, so we all slept in Grandma’s bed.”
Amelia handed her another.
Amanda kept reading.
The letters weren’t angry.
They were hopeful.
Until they weren’t.
The last one was written when they were ten.
“Mom, I hope you’re okay wherever you are.”
Then…
Nothing.
The letters simply stopped.
They were hopeful.
Amanda looked up.
“There must be more.”
Lily’s voice stayed gentle.
“There aren’t.”
“I don’t understand,” Amanda gasped.
Grace answered before anyone else could.
“We stopped writing.”
“There must be more.”
Amanda frowned.
“Why?”
Amelia folded her hands together.
“Because one day we realized we weren’t writing to someone anymore.” She paused. “We were writing to an empty place.”
The words settled over the room.
“We were writing to an empty place.”
Amanda lowered her eyes to the letters scattered across her lap.
They weren’t evidence against her.
They were 15 years of childhood, preserved exactly as it had been lived.
At the bottom of the gift bag lay one final envelope.
She opened it slowly.
Three recipe cards slipped into her hands.
They weren’t evidence against her.
My handwriting.
Lily smiled faintly.
“Grandma made those whenever one of us was having a hard day.”
Amanda read the first card.
When life feels too heavy… Make hot chocolate in the chipped blue mug.
