took it from him and opened the cabinet.
Inside lay a cardboard box wrapped in brown paper.
My name was written on top.
Not Anna Hale.
Just Anna.
The handwriting was my mother’s.
My knees weakened.
Daniel moved the desk chair behind me.
“Sit.”
I did.
For a moment, I could only hold the box.
The paper had yellowed, but the knot was still firm. I untied it slowly, afraid that opening it would somehow destroy the last untouched piece of my mother.
Inside were three envelopes, a photograph, a
