« Please, » she whispered. « Before you open it, there’s something you need to understand. »
I looked at my daughter’s handwriting.
Ten years had passed since I had last seen those familiar, slightly crooked letters. She always pressed too hard when she wrote, leaving faint impressions on the paper underneath.
I had kept her birthday cards in a wooden box beneath my bed. Sometimes, when the house was quiet and my grandson was asleep, I took them out just to see her handwriting again.
And now, standing beside her grave, I was holding words she had written for me but had never been allowed to say.
« What do I need to understand? » I asked.
The woman swallowed.
« Your daughter trusted me. »
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