With a calmness that contrasted sharply with my father’s fiery demeanor, my mother reached into her purse and pulled out a small, worn envelope. Her hands trembled slightly as she held it out to me. “James, before you say anything else, read this,” she said softly, her eyes suddenly filled with a mix of sadness and determination.
Confused, I took the envelope, my fingers clumsy from the IV drip attached to my hand. Inside, I found a letter—its edges frayed, the ink slightly faded. As I unfolded it, I realized it was written in my mother’s elegant handwriting, the kind I remembered from birthday cards and notes she used to slip into my lunchbox when I was a child.
