When I called to tell my son that my wife had pass…

in childish letters. Marcus had made it for her in third grade, and she’d kept it all these years.

Alongside it was a letter, folded small and worn from handling. I recognized Marcus’s handwriting, though it looked younger, less confident. It was dated from his sophomore year of college.

Dear mom, it began. I know I don’t say it enough, but thank you continue reading …