I’d passed it dozens of times.
Inside were letters, dozens of them, all handwritten.
Each one was labeled carefully in Lily’s neat handwriting.
“Open when you can’t get out of bed.”
“Open on your birthday.”
“Open when you’re mad at me.”
“Open when you forget what my voice sounds like.”
My vision blurred.
At the very top sat a small recorder.
Each one was labeled carefully.
I picked it up, my fingers shaking so badly I almost dropped it.
For a second, I just stared at it. Then I pressed play.
“Hi Mommy… if you’re hearing this, it means I didn’t get to stay as long as we hoped.”
It was my daughter’s voice, clear, gentle, and so familiar it hurt.
The sound of it hit me like a wave.
My breath caught in my throat so hard I thought I might pass out.
I sank to the cold floor, covered my mouth with both hands, and cried:
“Oh God, Lily… what have you done?”
The sound of it hit me like a wave.
***
I don’t know how long I sat there.
At some point, I realized I couldn’t do it alone.
I pulled out my phone and called the only person I knew would come without asking questions.
“Judy…” My voice broke. “I need you. I’m in a storage unit that Lily put together.”
“I’m on my way,” she said immediately. She didn’t hesitate.
My sister owned a small salon across town and could come and go as she pleased.
It didn’t take long.
I realized I couldn’t do it alone.
