But instead I nodded and walked away, with the kind of silence that shakes you from the inside.
For a year I tried to move on and bury the pain.
Then, one rainy evening, someone knocked on my door.
When I opened it, I found myself faced with a tall man, wearing an expensive suit and with bright eyes.
It was her husband. “I’m Daniel,” he said softly. “Your mother’s husband.” I froze, terrified by what he was about to say.
But then, with shaking hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small box. “He never told me about you,” he whispered. “But I found the letters.”
Inside the box were dozens of envelopes: letters my mother wrote to me every year for my birthday.
My mother had kept them hidden and had never dared to send them.
