We packed sandwiches, a thermos of tea, and more sunscreen than anyone needed.

Frank drove slowly along the familiar road while Theo asked whether fish ever got thirsty.

At the water’s edge, Frank spread a blanket and handed me a small envelope.

“I found this with your mother’s papers,” he said.

“I didn’t know when you were ready to read it.”

Inside was a letter my mother had written before the accident, intending to give it to me on a birthday years later.

It was ordinary and beautiful: advice about keeping friends, choosing work I could respect, and remembering that love should make room for the person I was becoming.