« Three weeks, Mom. »
She nodded slowly, then reached for the drawer of her nightstand.
Some days she called me by the dog’s name.
Her fingers shook a little as she pulled out a yellowed envelope, the paper soft from years of handling.
« This is for her, » she whispered. « For the wedding day. Don’t let me forget. »
« I won’t. »
She nodded and pressed the envelope back into the drawer like it was made of glass.
I didn’t ask what was inside. If I had, maybe a lot of heartache could’ve been prevented.
« For the wedding day. Don’t let me forget. »
Some things were hers, and I wanted to leave her something that belonged only to her.
Continue on the next page:
