At 16, my daughter went on a road trip with her dad’s new family. On the 5th day, she sent me a postcard saying they’d stay 2 extra days. When she got back, she apologized for not telling me. I said, “But you did! I got your postcard!” She lost all color in her face and said, “We didn’t send anything.” For a moment, we both just stared at each other, caught between confusion and unease. I remembered the postcard clearly—the handwriting looked like hers, the message was warm, and the photo on the front showed a scenic overlook she had mentioned wanting to visit. Still, something about that moment tugged at me. I brought the postcard from the drawer where I kept it and handed it to her. She studied it closely, her fingers trembling slightly. “Mom… this isn’t my handwriting,” she whispered. The realization made my stomach twist. We sat together at the kitchen table as she explained that during those two extra days, they’d been in areas with no cell reception and absolutely no access to mailing services. She insisted she hadn’t sent anything, and no one in her dad’s family had, either. Continue reading…
