Inside were dozens of envelopes, each one sealed carefully with my son’s name written across the front.
“Every year, on his birthday,” she explained softly, “Sam went to the same quiet hill and wrote to him. He never let anyone see, but this was how he grieved, how he stayed connected. He carried this pain silently all these years.”
I sat there for a long time, holding those letters, couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
One by one, I began to read.
They were filled with memories of our boy—his laughter, his dreams, his smile.
Some letters were apologies for moments Sam wished he could change, others were simply reminders of love.
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