The first one showed up when Adrian turned six. No glitter. No cute stickers. No return address that I recognized. Just our address written in neat, careful handwriting, and inside was a generic birthday postcard with a cartoon balloon on the front and five dollars folded so crisply it looked ironed.
That was it.
No signature. No clue. Nothing personal.
At the time, I shrugged it off. Kids get random birthday mail. Distant relatives remember late. Older people send cards without thinking to sign them. Life is messy. I was a single mother trying to keep bills paid and cereal in the pantry, so I did not have the energy to turn into a detective over five dollars and a postcard from what looked like the bargain rack at Target.
Then it happened again the next year.
Another plain envelope. Another bland birthday card. Another small bill tucked inside.
By the third year, Adrian had turned it into an event.
« Check the mailbox, Mom. »
