Tears blurred my vision as I continued to read. She spoke of pressures at school, of feeling overwhelmed, and yet she kept insisting she didn’t want to burden us. I felt a pang of guilt for not noticing, for not being able to help her. How could I have missed the signs?

But amidst her struggles, there was also hope. She wrote about the support of her friends and how she found solace in her art. “Creating things kept me going, Mom,” she explained. “It was my way of coping, my way of expressing what I couldn’t say out loud.”

I placed the letter aside, heart heavy with a mix of sorrow and understanding. As I delved further into the box, I found more letters addressed to her close friends, each one filled with messages of love and gratitude. It was as if she had left a piece of her heart for everyone she cared about.