Inside the box was a simple, handwritten letter, carefully folded, resting on top of an old photo of Jessica from when she was a child. The letter wasn’t long, but every word was chosen with the care and precision of a mother who has loved deeply and given much.
“Dear Jessica,” it began. “I remember the days when we would drive to the park in that old sedan, you asking a million questions about everything you saw, your eyes filled with wonder. Those were the days we didn’t have much, but we had each other, and that was enough.
I know times have been tough for you, and I’ve tried to help in every way I can. But Jessica, love isn’t measured by the things we buy or the demands we make. It’s in the quiet moments, the sacrifices we don’t announce, and the understanding that sometimes those who give the most have the least to spare.
