Growing up, I dreaded my birthday—not because of cake or parties, but because of my grandma’s “gift.” Every year, she handed me a faded, old postcard. Sometimes the corners were bent, the ink smudged, the picture plain.
At 8, I smiled politely. At 12, I frowned. At 15, I rolled my eyes. By 17, I didn’t even say thank you. Then she passed away that winter, quietly in her sleep.
Twenty years later, while clearing out my childhood home, I found a glass jar in the attic. Inside were 17 postcards—one for each year. Each had a tiny number and a message:
“The day you were born, I held you and promised to protect your heart when the world couldn’t.”
“Today you turned two. You screamed the entire party, but I’ve never seen someone look so powerful covered in cake.”
Every postcard was a memory, a love note, a story of my life written by her. She hadn’t just sent old paper—she had given me her heart, folded into postcards.
Now I keep all 17 framed on my desk. They remind me that love isn’t always obvious—it can be quiet, simple, and timeless, revealed only when we’re ready to truly see it. 💌✨
