Mia held her hand.
They were watching butterflies drift across the garden.
Gladys pointed toward an old oak tree.
“Kyle used to climb that.”
Kyle smiled sadly.
“I never lived here.”
Gladys looked confused.
Then she smiled again.
“Maybe not.”
That evening, after Gladys fell asleep, Kyle unlocked the small suitcase the assisted living center had returned with her belongings.
Most of it was ordinary.
A sweater.
Family photographs.
A worn Bible.
Then he found a bundle of letters tied together with blue ribbon.
Every envelope was addressed to him.
Every one had been returned unopened.
The earliest was dated 29 years ago.
Kyle carefully unfolded the first.
“My sweet boy,”
“Your father says you don’t want to see me. I don’t believe him, but I will keep writing until you know I never stopped loving you.”
“Love,”
“Mom”
His hands shook.
