We sorted through Mom’s things and found thirty-seven unopened letters tucked behind her winter coats — birthday cards, questions about school, and a silver bracelet meant for Nicole’s tenth birthday.

We found photographs Mom had meant to send, too, with notes to June written on the backs and then crossed out.

We read every letter together, crying slowly and quietly as the years unfolded between us.

Her choices were still wrong. But they weren’t simple. Love and fear had been twisting around each other inside her for decades. We made three albums — one each for Nicole, June, and me.

A month later we visited Mom’s grave. Nicole brought the yellow blanket June had saved from her infancy, folded one corner of it beside the marker, and knelt there alone.

“I’m grateful you raised me,” she said.