Every birthday, my grandmother gave me a faded postcard—crumpled beach scenes or dusty train stations. As a child, I smiled politely; as a teen, I rolled my eyes. At 17, her last year, I didn’t even thank her, tossing the postcard aside. She passed that winter, quietly, leaving a void I barely grasped then.
Twenty years later, clearing my childhood home, I found a glass jar in the attic, holding 17 postcards—one for each birthday. Expecting her usual “Happy Birthday,” I flipped one over. It read “#1” with a note: “The day you were born, I promised to protect your heart.” Another, “#2,” described me at two, “powerful” despite cake-covered chaos. Each postcard was a memory, a love letter, my story told in her words.
I sat, reading through tears, realizing I’d misunderstood her gift. Not toys or clothes, but her heart, folded into postcards. Now framed on my desk, they remind me love can be simple, old, and profound—often seen clearly only when it’s too late to say thank you. I whisper it now, grateful for her unwavering gift.
