At 17, I was left alone while my family vacationed in Canada, until a postcard arrived in my mom’s handwriting saying they had detoured to Vermont.
I felt relieved, but when they returned, they denied sending it, and my mom insisted the handwriting wasn’t hers.
Despite the real postmark and perfect imitation, we never discovered who sent it or why.
Years later, I’m still haunted by how someone turned my loneliness into a comforting illusion of safety.
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