Receipts.
Pens.
Old instruction manuals.
Then I opened the bottom drawer. There was a cardboard box inside.
I froze.
It had been sealed carefully with tape. My name was written across the top.
I froze.
For several seconds, I just stared at it.
Then I carried it to the table and peeled the tape back. Inside were dozens of envelopes.
Some were yellow with age. Others looked much newer. Every single one had my name on it.
Supposedly from me.
And beneath them was another stack. Letters addressed to my mother.
Supposedly from me. I pulled out the first stack.
They were the letters my mother had written to me.
Some were still in their original envelopes. Others were copies she had apparently kept before mailing them.
The dates stretched back years.
My throat tightened.
I opened one at random.
“I know you may never want to see me, but I am still here if you ever change your mind.”
Another was even simpler.
“Happy birthday. I hope you are happy. I hope you are loved.”
My throat tightened.
The replies.
Then I reached the second stack.
The replies.
The first one I opened made my stomach twist.
“Stop pretending you care about me.”
Another:
“You made your choice. Leave me alone.”
I kept reading.
Another:
“I already have a family. I don’t need you.”
I kept reading.
