She had found old photographs of our mother at the farmhouse and a bundle of letters from our grandmother.

She offered to send copies.

When they arrived, I read them slowly.

My grandmother had written about independence, education, and the responsibility of parents to make sure children grew into adults able to stand on their own.

She had worried that my mother relied too much on my father to manage money.

There were no coded revelations, only an older woman’s repeated hope that the next generation would have better choices.

One letter ended with a sentence I copied into Noah’s baby book: Love is not a prize given to the child who performs best.