DEBORAH'S POV
I stayed awake all night reading my mother's letters. One by one, I opened every envelope in that cardboard box, watching her life unfold in careful handwriting on cheap stationery. Victoria had gone to bed hours ago, but I couldn't stop. Twenty-three years of my mother's thoughts, her worries, her desperate love for a daughter she couldn't see.
The letters were arranged chronologically. Victoria had kept them organized by date, like a museum curator preserving artifacts. I watched my mother age through her words. The early letters were full of hope that maybe someday she could come back for me. The middle ones accepted that reunion wasn't possible but held onto dreams of secret meetings, brief visits, something. The later letters just wanted to know I was alive and happy.
