“She carried this all these years,” Kyle whispered.
“She may have forgotten her current address,” Linda said, “but she never forgot her little boy.”
When we returned home, Gladys and Mia were standing in the backyard, watching butterflies move through the garden.
Gladys pointed toward an oak tree.
“Kyle used to climb that.”
Kyle smiled sadly.
“I never lived here, Mom.”
She looked confused for a moment, then smiled again.
“Perhaps not.”
That evening, Kyle opened the suitcase the care center had returned with Gladys’s belongings.
Inside were ordinary items: a sweater, family photographs, and a worn Bible.
At the bottom, he discovered a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon.
Every envelope was addressed to him.
Every letter had been returned unopened.
The oldest was dated twenty-nine years earlier.
With shaking hands, Kyle opened it.
“My sweet boy,” it began. “Your father says you don’t want to see me. I don’t believe him, but I’ll continue writing until you understand that I never stopped loving you.”
