Mom’s memory box.
We had recovered it from a storage unit my parents rented.
Inside were birthday cards.
Hospital bracelets.
School pictures.
My first lost tooth.
A tiny knitted hat Vicky wore as a baby.
And beneath everything was an envelope.
My name was written on it.
MICHAEL — OPEN WHEN YOU’RE READY
I stared at it.
Vicky sat beside me.
“Are you ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I laughed.
“You’re getting bossy.”
“I’m eight soon.”
“As opposed to seven, which is famously humble.”
She ignored me.
“Open it.”
So I did.
Inside was a letter.
Mom’s handwriting.
I began reading.
Michael,
If you’re reading this, then either I finally got brave enough to give it to you, or you’ve found it yourself.
My chest tightened.
There’s something we’ve owed you for a long time.
I already knew.
The adoption.
Still, my hands trembled.
You came to us when you were eleven months old.
