“We have a delivery for you. The box is huge and quite heavy.”
It took three men working together to carry it inside my small house. The box was about the size of a small refrigerator, wrapped completely in brown paper. The only visible label simply read: “For my mom.”
Inside the enormous box, right on top of everything else, was a sealed envelope. My name was written clearly, in Darla’s unmistakable handwriting.
The letter was dated three weeks before her death. The first line took my breath away:
“Mom, I know you’re probably very confused right now. But if they’ve delivered this box to you, it means I’m no longer alive.”
“There are important things you didn’t know about me. I have to tell you the truth now. You’ll understand everything when you open the package completely.”
With trembling hands, I carefully opened the large box. Inside were dozens and dozens of smaller boxes, each one meticulously labeled in Darla’s precise handwriting.
One box for Lily’s tenth birthday. Another for Ben’s first day of secondary school. Another for Molly learning to ride a bike. Another for Rosie’s fifth birthday celebration.
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