Maya tore off the ribbon like a child opening a prize.
The lid came off.
Then her smile vanished.
Inside the box were fifteen smaller boxes, each marked with a year.
Year One.
Year Two.
Year Three.
All the way to Year Fifteen.
Maya’s hands trembled as she opened the first one.
Inside was a birthday card Adele had made at seven years old. On the front, in crooked purple letters, it said:
“For Mommy, if she comes back.”
The next box held six school drawings.
The next held a dance recital program with one empty reserved seat circled in red.
The next held a Father’s Day card one of my younger daughters had accidentally written as “Happy Parent Day” because she didn’t know where Mother’s Day belonged.
Guests began covering their mouths.
Maya opened another box and found a stack of unopened letters.
Letters the girls had written but never sent.
Because we never knew where she was.