Then, exactly six months after the accident, something arrived that shook everything again.
A delivery truck pulled up while the children were at school.
The driver knocked and asked where I wanted the box.
I hadn’t ordered anything.
The label said only:
To My Mom.
The handwriting on the shipping form looked painfully familiar.
It took three men to carry it inside.
When they left, the house felt impossibly silent.
I opened it carefully.
On top was a sealed envelope.
My heart knew before my eyes confirmed it.
Darla’s handwriting.
I opened it with trembling fingers.
“Mom, if this letter reaches you, it means I didn’t get the time I hoped for.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
She wrote that there were things she hadn’t been able to tell me. That I would understand after I saw what was inside.
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