When my mom passed, my kids were too little to understand. I held them at the funeral, telling them she was in the sky watching over us. Now, at five, they could carry flowers and remember more than I expected.
Every year on her birthday, we visit her grave with yellow daisies and take a photo “to show her we came.” This year felt different. Drew noticed a small wooden box tucked under the flowers — something that hadn’t been there before.
Inside were old photos and a folded, yellowed letter signed “C.” Most of the photos showed my mom young and happy, holding hands with a man I didn’t know — her first love, Jonah. The letter revealed he had loved her deeply, but life had kept them apart.
Over the next week, I discovered more — letters, sketches, and memories Jonah had kept hidden. He never reached out while respecting her life with my dad. Reading his letters taught me that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be powerful.
When we returned to the cemetery, the kids brought extra flowers — one for Nana, one for the man who loved her. A single hidden box had changed the way I saw our family’s story. Love, I realized, can stretch across time, never losing its shape.
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