But she was no longer there.
The funeral home had taken her a few hours earlier, and her children—whom I had never actually met, whom I had only heard stories about, whom I had never seen visit or call—had said on the phone that they wouldn’t arrive until the next day.
The neighbor handed me a yellowed envelope, and her voice was careful.
“She told me to give this only to you. She made me promise last week. She said if anything happened to her, you should have this before anyone else saw it.”
My name was written on the envelope in Carmen’s trembling handwriting—shaky, careful, the handwriting of someone who had been growing weaker but wanted to make sure this particular task was completed.
I sat on the bed where she had spent her final weeks and opened the envelope with shaking hands.
Inside there was a single handwritten letter and a small brass key.
