A letter. Wednesday cookies, Thursday flowers, yesterday a teddy bear, and today a letter. I’m glad my husband is not home to make things unsettling. I don’t blame him for being a little suspicious, but the truth is I have no idea what’s going on either. These seemingly ownerless gifts keep appearing on our doorstep addressed to me. I suppose it is a kind gesture, which is most of why I am sitting at the table opening the little powder blue envelope. The rest is curiosity. It is a card; it says “Thinking of you” on the front with a soft watercolor illustration of hearts and flowers. I open it in search of an explanation. It gives me one. In neat, unfamiliar, cursive handwriting is written “Sorry about your loss.” My mind races.
I snatch the envelope off the table and search it again for a return address; the only one I find is my own written beneath “To Sophie Headweather” all in that same careful hand. I begin to look for more clues. I find that the brand on the card is an unfamiliar one and, being desperate, I look it up. It turns out to be a useful clue. It is a family business that exists only in one little town on the east coast. I then turn to my address book, but it tells me that I know no one near the place. Still inflamed with curiosity and worry I search for the latest of the obituaries in that town’s newspaper. I stop on one belonging to a girl who is the spitting image of a picture I’d seen of my mother before she was married. As well as owning mother’s face she owns her maiden name...
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