I recognized the embroidered “C” in the corner. I had watched her stitch it years ago while she told me stories of her childhood.
“What are you hiding, Mom?” I murmured, untying the worn twine with trembling fingers.
Inside were dozens of letters, each addressed to my mother in Grandma’s unmistakable handwriting. The pages were yellowed at the edges, some creased from being handled often.
The first letter, dated three years ago, looked as though it had been read countless times.
