The morning after the funeral was as quiet as I had imagined it would be. Grief has a way of slowing everything down—voices seem softer, footsteps lighter, and time itself feels suspended. I assumed the days ahead would slowly return to a familiar routine.
Then I received an unexpected phone call.
Her son sounded upset and confused. While sorting through some of his mother’s belongings, he had discovered a letter addressed not to him—but to me. The discovery raised questions he hadn’t anticipated, and he wanted to understand why she had written it.
At that moment, I didn’t have the answers either.
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