When I was 17, my family went on vacation to Canada while I stayed home for my summer job. They planned to return in seven days.
On the seventh day, I received a postcard from my mother saying they were visiting friends in Vermont and would be home two days later.
When they arrived, they apologized for not telling me about the delay.
“But you did,” I said. “I got your postcard.”
My mother went pale. “We never sent one.”
I searched the stack of mail, but the postcard was gone. To this day, I wonder whether I dreamed it—and how I knew exactly when they’d return.
