🌷AceTyra💞

For nine years, someone had sent my dead wife a birthday card. The first arrived eleven months after her funeral. It was a plain white envelope with no return address, containing a card that read, I hope this year gives you the courage to begin again. I assumed it was a mistake. The second arrived the following year. Then the third. Every card carried the same neat handwriting and a different message. None mentioned her death. None asked for a reply. My wife, Isolde, had been a private person. She kept her friendships separate from our marriage, and I had never questioned it. After she died, I discovered that privacy can leave a person surrounded by unanswered questions. I kept the cards in a drawer. On the ninth anniversary of her death, I received a letter from a woman named Maeven Holt. She introduced herself as Isolde's former colleague and asked whether I would meet her. She brought a birthday card with her. “This one was returned to me,” she said. I looked at the handwriting. It was the same as the others. “Were you sending these?” “Yes.” “Why?” Maeven folded her hands. “Because I promised her I would.” I wanted to be grateful. Instead, I felt angry. She had been communicating with my wife for years, and I had never known her name. Maeven explained that Isolde had helped her through a difficult period at work. When Maeven's husband became ill, Isolde had covered her shifts, helped her manage paperwork, and never once asked for an explanation. In return, Maeven had promised to send Isolde a birthday card every year, no matter what happened. “Why didn't you tell me?” “She asked me not to.” I found the answer unsatisfactory.