I checked postmarks. I studied handwriting. I held envelopes up to the light like I was in some low-budget crime show. I asked my mother if she knew anything. I asked my sister. I even called an old friend and jokingly said, « If you’re the weirdo mailing my kid birthday money, just tell me so I can stop wondering. »
Nobody knew anything.
Or at least nobody admitted it.
Adrian loved the mystery. I hated it.
Not because it felt dangerous. It never did. It felt… intentional. Thoughtful, almost. That was what bothered me. Someone out there remembered my son every single year with this strange little ritual and stayed just far enough away to remain faceless.
It felt like a hand resting on the edge of our life.
When Adrian turned thirteen, he opened the envelope at the kitchen table while I was making pancakes. He pulled out the card, looked inside, and then lifted his eyes to me with this narrow little stare.
« What? » I said.
He tilted his head. « Are you doing this? »
I laughed. « Doing what? »
