As a child, my grandma gave me a plain postcard each birthday—oceans, hills, city streets—one for every year until she passed when I turned 17. I kept them, unsure why they mattered.
Decades later, I found them again—this time in a jar labeled “For You.” Flipping them over, I discovered hidden messages: clues forming a puzzle. The final card held a tiny key and an address.
There, in a storage unit, I found her diary, photos, and a savings account in my name—alongside a letter reminding me that love isn’t always loud. It’s patient, quiet, enduring.
Her postcards weren’t just gifts—they were a legacy. Now, I carry her wisdom forward, teaching my children the same kind of love.
