The Letters
With trembling hands, I picked up the envelopes. The handwriting was unmistakable—my grandmother’s graceful cursive.
I sank into a nearby chair, heart pounding. One by one, I slid open the envelopes. Inside were love letters—letters exchanged between my grandmother and grandfather. Some dated back to their courtship, others written during his time away at work. They were full of tender promises, silly inside jokes, dreams of the future they would build together.
Reading them felt like stepping into a time machine. I could hear their voices in every line, could feel the love that had built the very family I came from.
And then, tucked at the very bottom, was one envelope addressed not to my grandfather, but to me.
