I told myself daily that feeding them and keeping them safe was enough. But deep down, I wondered if I was failing them.
One morning, after dropping the kids off, I realized I’d forgotten my purse at home. When I returned, a delivery truck was in the driveway.
“Are you Carolyn?” the man asked.
“Yes?”
“We have a delivery for you. The box is very large and heavy.”
It took three men to carry it inside. The box was the size of a small refrigerator, wrapped in brown paper. The only label read: “To My Mom.”
Inside, right on top, was a sealed envelope. My name was written in Darla’s handwriting.
The letter was dated three weeks before she died. The first line made my heart stop:
“Mom, I know you’re probably confused right now. But if this box has been delivered to you, it means I’m no longer alive.”
“There are things you never knew about me. I have to tell you the truth. You’ll understand everything once you open the package.”
