I was cleaning out the bottom drawer of her old dresser—one I hadn’t been able to open since the funeral. It still smelled like her lotion, like lavender and something warm I couldn’t name.

I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. Maybe a photo, a scarf. Maybe just a reason to cry without feeling like I was falling apart again.

And then I found it.

A folded piece of stationery tucked behind a stack of receipts and birthday cards from years ago. The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakable—loopy and light. For my baby, it said. That was her. She always called me that, even when I turned thirty.

I sat on the floor, knees to my chest, and read it once. Then twice. Then a third time, out loud, just to hear her voice in my head.

She’d written it like she knew. Like somehow, she knew she wouldn’t be here much longer. Every line felt like she was sitting next to me, brushing my hair behind my ear the way she used to when I was little and couldn’t sleep.

“My beautiful baby,
I don’t know why I had to leave you so soon.
I wish there was a reason,
an explanation that could ease your pain.
But there isn’t.
It was simply my time…”

I’ll be honest—I cried so hard my chest hurt. It felt like someone had scooped my heart out with a dull spoon. But also… there was something comforting about it. The way she talked to me in the letter, it didn’t sound like goodbye. More like I’m still with you. Just not the way you’re used to.

I didn’t believe her at first.

But then something happened the next morning. Something I still can’t explain.