My family disowned me when I married a black man t…

are the birthday cards I sent you every year for 9 years.

Every single one came back. “Iris, I—” “I am not finished.” I moved to tab two. Year two.

Three more items. A voicemail transcript. My words printed from a transcription app stapled to a note with a date and time.

An unanswered call log. A Facebook post. Diane’s ‘My whole world’ post.

No Iris, no continue reading …