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.
Beneath the letter were dozens of smaller boxes.
Each labeled with a future date.
Lily – 10th birthday
Ben – First day of middle school
Molly – First bike
Rosie – Kindergarten graduation
There were packages for heartbreaks, for college acceptance letters, for turning eighteen.
My daughter had prepared for moments she knew she would never witness.
At the very bottom was another note with an address and two words:
Go see him.
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