My kids were babies when my mom died. I told them she was in the sky, watching us. Now they’re five, old enough to ask questions. Every year on her birthday, we visit her grave with yellow daisies and take a photo “to show Nana we came.”
This year, we found a small wooden box tucked beneath the flowers. Inside—old photos and a letter:
“To the one who loved her most,
I couldn’t say it back then.
But I hope these help you understand. – C.”
The photos showed my mom, young and smiling, pregnant—standing with a man I didn’t recognize. Not my dad.
I called Aunt Sylvia. After a pause, she said, “His name was Jonah. Your mom’s first love.”
He disappeared before I was born. Years later, sick and fading, he sent her those photos. She kept them hidden and read the letter every birthday.
I returned the box—but added a photo of me and the kids. On the back:
“She raised us with love. Thank you for being part of her story.”
Weeks later, I got a letter. No return address. It held a key, an address in Vermont, and a message:
“I’m Jonah’s niece. He left this for you.”
I went. The cottage had a room filled with sketches, letters, and memories of my mom.
The last letter read:
“I hope her daughter finds me one day. She was my once-in-a-lifetime.”
Now, one of his sketches hangs above our kids’ art.
Because some love stories never end—they just wait to be found.
