When my daughter was 16, she went on a road trip with her dad’s new family. On the fifth day, I received a postcard saying they’d be staying two extra days. When she returned, she apologized for not telling me. I smiled and said, “But you did! I got your postcard!” Instantly, the color drained from her face. “Mom… we didn’t send anything.” For a moment, we just stared at each other, caught between confusion and unease.
I retrieved the postcard from my drawer. The handwriting looked familiar, the message warm, and the photo matched a place she’d once mentioned wanting to visit. But as she studied it, her hands shook. “This isn’t my handwriting.” She explained that during those extra days, they’d been somewhere with no cell service and no access to mail—even if she had wanted to send something, she couldn’t have.
