In the box, there are labeled letters, written in my mom’s telltale cursive handwriting. Engagement. Wedding. 30th birthday. 40th birthday. 50th birthday. My grandbabies. My passing. For when you need my love. For when you miss me. For when you need a hug. For when you’re pregnant. For when you’re postpartum. All the control in the world can’t stop the tears from freefalling down my cheeks. “So she never had to say goodbye,” I whisper and smile.
