Three months later, Frank collapsed in our kitchen. He’d been fixing the cabinet hinge Catherine used to swing on, and he asked me for the screwdriver. His hand went slack, his knees hit the tile, and the sound split my head open.
“Frank! Look at me!” I screamed, slapping his cheek, begging his eyes to focus.
In the ER, a doctor said, “Stress cardiomyopathy,” like it was a weather report.
A nurse whispered, “Broken heart syndrome,” and I hated her for giving it a cute name.
At the funeral, people said, “You’re so strong,” and I nodded like a trained animal.
In the car afterward, I slammed the steering wheel until my wrists ached. I had buried my husband while my daughter was still missing, and my body didn’t know which grief to carry first.
Last Thursday would have been her 25th birthday.
Time kept moving, rude and steady. I worked, paid bills, smiled at cashiers, then cried in the shower where the water could hide it. Every year on Catherine’s birthday, I bought a cupcake with pink frosting and lit one candle upstairs.
I sat in Frank’s rocking chair and whispered, “Come home.” Sometimes I said it like a prayer; sometimes I spat it like a dare. The room never answered, but I kept talking anyway.
Last Thursday would have been her 25th birthday. Twenty-five sounded like a stranger. I did the ritual, then went downstairs to check the mail, because my hands needed something to do.
Inside was a photograph of a young woman.
A plain white envelope lay on top. No stamp, no return address, only my name in neat handwriting I didn’t recognize. My fingers shook as I tore it open.
Inside was a photograph of a young woman in front of a brick building. She had my face at that age, but the eyes were Frank’s, deep brown and unmistakable. Behind it was a letter, folded tight.
The first line made the room tilt. “Dear Mom.”
