When I was young, my grandma gave me one cryptic postcard each birthday, which I dismissed as odd. At 17, she died. At 37, I found 17 postcards in my childhood home, each with underlined letters forming a clue: “LOOK IN THE CEDAR HOPE CHEST. BOTTOM.” In the chest, I discovered a hidden folder revealing Grandma Zahra was my biological mother. She fled Iran in the ‘70s, pregnant with me, after her journalist lover was targeted. Unable to raise me, she arranged my adoption by distant cousins in the U.S. and became our “nanny” to stay close. She
never told anyone, embedding her truth in those postcards. Her letters detailed her sacrifices, love, and pain. I remembered her fierce protectiveness, her unique lullabies. She left an unsent confession to my adoptive parents, who, when I shared the truth, admitted her unmatched love for me. Grandma left me her Oregon bungalow, where I moved with my daughter, Reya, escaping my burnt-out LA life. I now write postcards to Reya, embedding lessons for her future. Zahra’s secrets weren’t betrayal but love-shaped sacrifices. Her truth, whispered through decades, found its way home.
