Inside were birthday cards, written for years when I believed she had died.

The envelopes were not stamped.

Some were addressed to me at our old house; others bore no address because Helen did not know where Walter and I had moved.

There was a yellow card with a badly drawn balloon for my sixth birthday, a card with a watercolor horse for my ninth, and a folded letter written when I turned sixteen.

Her handwriting changed across the years, becoming firmer and then shaky again.