admitted it.
Adrian loved the mystery. I hated it.
Not because it seemed dangerous.
It never did.
It felt intentional.
Almost thoughtful.
That was what unsettled me.
Someone remembered my son every year with this strange little ritual while staying just far enough away to remain anonymous.
It felt like a hand resting at the edge of our lives.
When Adrian turned thirteen, he opened that year’s envelope at the kitchen table while I made pancakes.
He pulled out the card, looked inside, then narrowed his eyes at me.
“What?”
