The color faded from her cheeks as she read the letter written on pink stationery. The words “Dear Marisol” were written at the top in swoopy cursive. The entire body of the letter was only three words: “I miss you.” Marisol’s eyes filled with tears as she read “Love, Mom” written at the bottom. Marisol dropped the letter on the floor and collapsed into her white armchair, sobbing uncontrollably. She hadn’t seen or spoken to her mother in seven years. And yet, her mom sent her a simple letter, summarizing the lost years into a few short words. Marisol was racked with guilt. Why had she left her mother seven years ago? She couldn’t even remember. It was probably some silly disagreement. Marisol erupted into another wave of tears. When she calmed down, she decided that she should write a letter back. She pulled out a pen and some paper and tried to begin the letter. She wrote “Dear Mom,” but it sounded childish, so she scribbled it out. She tried “To my loving mother,” but it seemed like something written on a Hallmark card. Marisol crumpled up the paper and threw it away. She decided that she would sleep on it and try to write the letter again tomorrow.

She awoke the next morning and, without thinking, poured out her heart onto a piece of paper. All of the apologies and tears and “I love you”s and “I miss you”s she had bottled up inside her ended up flowing into sincere, heartfelt sentences in a letter to the person she wanted to be with more than anything else in the world. Without pausing, she cried as she sealed the letter in a white envelope and mailed it. She fell into the armchair, and closed her eyes, exhausted.

The next day, Marisol opened her mailbox and found another letter written on pink flowered stationery. She took a deep breath to steady herself and opened it. The sheet of paper inside said only two words: “Thank you.” Marisol furrowed her eyebrows and read it again. Thank you. She turned it over, expecting more, but it was blank. She read the two words again. Thank you. After a novel-long letter of apologies and heartfelt sentiments, her mother could only say “Thank you”? Marisol closed her eyes and sighed with disappointment and anger. She was about to rip the letter up when the phone rang. She dropped the letter on the hallway floor and dashed to the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello?”
“Hello. I’m looking for Marisol Sanders?”

“This is she.”

“I’m sorry to inform you of this, Ms. Sanders, but . . . your mother passed away a few days ago.”

Marisol’s heart skipped a beat. What? Right after she reconciled everything with her mother, she just disappears from her life forever? “When?” she demanded. “What day?”

“March 9th. I’m sorry we couldn’t contact you earlier, but your phone was down.”

Marisol dropped the phone. She heard the distant “Ms. Sanders? Ms. Sanders?” coming from the handheld on the floor. What day is today, she asked herself. The 14th. It can’t be, she thought. That’s impossible. Nevertheless, she ran to the hallway where she left her mother’s second letter. She saw the rosy pink stationery lying on the floor. Her hands trembled as she picked it up and read the date in the corner of the letter, the date it was wrtiten. Marisol’s jaw dropped as she read the date: March 13th . . .