Still works.
Months later, Grace added:
Especially the hot chocolate.After a difficult day at school, Amelia slipped hers into my apron pocket. On the back she had written:
I cried over a sink full of mixing bowls where nobody could see me.
Downstairs, Amanda continued waiting.
Lily returned carrying a white gift bag tied with gold ribbon.
Amanda accepted it eagerly.
“You girls are thoughtful.”
She sat down on the couch.
The girls stayed standing together.
Amanda untied the ribbon.
Inside were stacks of letters.
Drawings.
Mother’s Day cards made from construction paper.
Birthday notes.
Her smile faded. “What is this?”
“Things from when we were little,” Grace said softly.
Amanda unfolded the first page.
“Dear Mom,
Today I lost my first tooth. Grandma said you probably would’ve laughed because I kept checking the mirror.”
She stared down at it.
Amelia handed her another.
Age seven.
“Dear Mom,
I can ride my bike now. Grandma ran behind me even though her knees hurt.”
Then another.
Age eight.
“Dear Mom,
Grace got scared during the thunderstorm, so we all slept in Grandma’s bed.”
Amanda kept reading.
The letters were not angry.
They were hopeful.
Until they were no longer hopeful.
The final one had been written when they were ten.
“Mom, I hope you’re okay wherever you are.”
After that…
Nothing.
The letters simply ended.
Amanda looked up.
“There must be more.”
Lily’s voice remained gentle.
“I don’t understand,” Amanda gasped.
Grace answered first.
“We stopped writing.”
Amanda frowned.
Amelia folded her hands.
