Beneath the bed, cloaked in shadows and dust, lay a small wooden box. It was an old thing, the kind that might have belonged to her grandmother. My fingers trembled as I reached for it, pulling it slowly into the light. There was an odd sense of dread, yet something compelled me to open it. As the lid creaked open, I was confronted with an assortment of items that made my heart thud against my chest.
The box was filled with photographs, letters, and little mementos that I hadn’t seen before. The photographs were the first to catch my eye. They were pictures of my daughter with a group of friends I didn’t recognize. They were smiling and laughing, captured in the carefree innocence of youth. I realized that there was so much of her life that I hadn’t known, pockets of joy and experience she had shared with others.
Beneath the photographs were letters — dozens of them — written in a variety of handwriting. They spoke of secret meetings, shared dreams, and promises to remain friends forever. As I read through them, I saw a side of my daughter that I had never known. She was loved wildly and deeply by those around her. These were not just her friends, they were her chosen family.
