I opened the box. Inside were dozens of smaller boxes, each carefully labeled in Darla’s handwriting: one for Lily’s 10th birthday, one for Ben’s first day of middle school, one for Molly learning to ride a bike, one for Rosie’s fifth birthday.
There were gifts for every milestone until they turned 18.
For illustrative purposes only
At the bottom was another envelope:
“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wanted to protect something. Please visit this address. He’ll explain everything.”
The address led me to a small house two hours away. A man in his late 30s answered.
“My name is Carolyn. I’m Darla’s mother. I received a package with this address.”
His face changed. “Carolyn? Yes. Please come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
He introduced himself: “I’m William. I was your daughter’s doctor.”
“Doctor?”
He explained: “Your daughter was diagnosed with stage four cancer a year ago. It was aggressive. She had less than a year.”
