—
Two months later, Sophie came to Clara’s apartment with a box.
Inside were letters — dozens of them.
Unopened.
“These were at Grandma’s house,” Sophie said.
“She kept them in a drawer in her bedroom.
They’re all addressed to me.
All from you.”
Clara took one out.
The envelope was faded.
The address was written in her handwriting — careful, small, the way she wrote when she was trying not to cry.
“I sent one every week,” Clara said.
“For years.”
Sophie opened the first letter.
It was short:
“Dear Sophie, you’re three months old today.
You smiled at me this morning.
I know you won’t remember, but I will.
I love you more than anything in this world.
Mom.”
Sophie read it aloud.
Her voice broke on the last word.
She opened another.
“Dear Sophie, you’re two today.
I came to your party but your grandmother asked me to leave before you saw me.
I watched you through the window.
You were wearing a yellow dress.
You looked so happy.
That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
Sophie put the letters down.
“She never gave me a single one.”
“I know.”
“All those years.
You were right there.
And she made sure I never knew.”
Clara sat beside her daughter.
They didn’t say anything for a while.
The letters were spread across the table — twenty years of words that never arrived.
“I graduated,” Clara said finally.
“I finished the degree I started before you were born.”
“I know.”
“I did it for me.
But I also did it because I wanted you to see that I didn’t give up.
On anything.”
Sophie picked up the last letter in the box.
It was dated six months ago.
“Dear Sophie, I’m going back to school.
I know it’s late.
I know you probably won’t read this.
But if you ever do — I want you to know that your mother never stopped trying.
Not once.”
