There were school reports, a dried flower from a Mother’s Day card, and letters Daniel had written when he was a boy.

I sat on the carpet and read every one.

The first letter was from second grade.

It began, Dear Mom, when I am big you don’t have to work three jobs.

You can stay home and rest.

I love you more than all the trucks in the world.

I pressed the paper against my chest.

The handwriting was crooked.