My pension could not support five people, so I went back to work. At seventy-one, I found a job at a diner on Route 9, wiping tables and taking orders during the day, then knitting scarves and hats at night to sell at weekend markets.
Gradually, we established a routine. I took the older children to school, brought Rosie to daycare, worked until early afternoon, picked everyone up, prepared dinner, helped with homework, and read bedtime stories until exhaustion finally quieted the house.
Six months went by like that.
Then one morning, after dropping the children off, I realized I had forgotten my purse at home. When I pulled into the driveway, a delivery truck was waiting outside, and three men were struggling to carry a package nearly as large as a refrigerator.
“Are you Carolyn?”
“Yes.”
“We have a delivery for you. It’s very large and very heavy.”
The package was covered in brown paper, with only four words written on the label.
“To My Mom.”
I recognized the handwriting instantly.
Darla’s.
My hands were already shaking before I opened it.
Inside, resting above everything else, was a sealed envelope with my name written across it. The letter had been dated three weeks before Darla died.
“Mom, I know you’re probably confused right now. But if this box has been delivered to you, it means I’m no longer alive.”
I stopped reading for several minutes. Seeing those words in my daughter’s handwriting made her death feel painfully fresh. Eventually, I forced myself to continue.
“There are things you never knew about me. I have to tell you the truth. You’ll understand everything once you open the package.”
Beneath the letter were dozens of smaller boxes, each carefully marked for a future milestone. One was labeled for Lily’s tenth birthday, another for Ben’s first day of middle school, another for Molly learning to ride a bike, and another for Rosie’s fifth birthday.
There were presents for birthdays, graduations, first dances, and moments my daughter already knew she would never live to witness.
At the very bottom was another envelope.
“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wanted to protect something. Please visit this address. He’ll explain everything.”
