Helen glanced at the door, then lowered her voice until it was barely a breath. “Years ago, I wrote my daughter a letter for every birthday, up to her fortieth. I hid them inside the piano bench, under the old hymnals. Promise you will give them to her, but only when she is ready.” Her fingers tightened around mine, and I could not breathe.

I walked to the dusty piano in the corner, my knees shaking, and lifted the lid of the bench. Beneath the hymnals lay a bundle of cream envelopes tied with a faded blue ribbon, each one labeled in Mom’s careful handwriting. The top envelope was addressed to me and marked: To be opened the first time I forget your name. Behind me, Helen whispered, “Is that the one she is supposed to find?” My hands shook so badly that the ribbon slid free.