Maybe because throwing it away felt like admitting Goldi would never return.
Maybe because some tiny, stupid part of me believed she might eventually knock on the door.
I kept that card for eleven years.
On Leo’s eleventh Mother’s Day without her, I finally moved it into a box in the attic.
I didn’t throw it away.
I just couldn’t keep opening the drawer and seeing it.
Goldi had become a ghost.
No calls.
No birthday cards.
No Christmas presents.
Nothing.
Or at least, that’s what I believed.
What I didn’t know was that someone in our lives had been keeping a secret.
And she had kept it for eighteen years.
Part 4 — The Birthday Letter
Leo’s eighteenth birthday was yesterday.
We didn’t have a huge party.
That had been his choice.
When I asked what he wanted, he said, “Steak, mashed potatoes, chocolate cake and Grandma Jo.”
“Anything else?”
“Can the mashed potatoes have cheese?”
“I meant guests.”
“Oh.”
He thought about it.
“No.”
So that was our party.
The three of us.
I grilled steaks on the little patio behind our townhouse.
Mrs. Johnson—Grandma Jo now—brought Leo’s favorite macaroni salad.
And because Leo insisted that eighteen candles were “scientifically necessary,” we somehow squeezed all eighteen onto one cake.
After dinner, he opened his presents.
A new pair of headphones from me.
A watch from Mrs. Johnson.
Two graphic novels.
A gift card.
Then he disappeared upstairs.
I assumed he was getting something.
When he came back, he was holding an envelope.
Old.
Yellowed around the edges.
He sat down and slid it toward me.
I laughed.
“Buddy, it’s your birthday. You’re supposed to get presents, not me.”
“I know, Dad.”
His expression stopped me.
He glanced toward Mrs. Johnson.
“Grandma Jo told me today was finally the right day.”
I looked at her.
She wasn’t smiling.
Her teacup was rattling against its saucer.
“What is this?”
She stared at the table.
“Jo?”
Tears filled her eyes.
My stomach tightened.
I turned the envelope over.
Then every sound in the room seemed to disappear.
