The Pacific morning was bright and cold, the kind of clarity that feels like a fresh start. I was on the deck, wrestling with a stubborn bougainvillea that refused to climb its trellis, when the second envelope came.It wasn't delivered by the postman. It was tucked into the slats of the deck railing, weighed down by a smooth, grey river stone. No stamp. No address. Just my name, written in a familiar, elegant script that stopped my breath.My mother's handwriting.The paper was thick, expensive, and smelled faintly of the lavender sachets she used to keep in her linen closet. My hands went numb. The gardening shears slipped from my fingers, clattering on the wood.With trembling hands, I unfolded the single sheet.My Dearest Audrey,If you are reading this, you have chosen the concrete. You have chosen to let the garden sleep. That was the choice I hoped you would make. The burden of that knowledge is not for you, or for any child.But a mother’s work is never done, and a secret alwa
Zuletzt aktualisiert : 2026-01-23 Mehr lesen