Envelopes of Love

The Gift in Her Handwriting

My mother had the most artistic handwriting. Her signature was practically a work of art — and, as we liked to joke, almost impossible for a teenager to forge. She would even make a few graceful “practice swings” before perfectly constructing her FH and F for her signature.

And she wrote to us often. Most of our lives, she was the one who signed the cards, the notes, the school paperwork. Her handwriting was everywhere.

Sorting Through a Life

After she died, we realized that she had been on a purging mission. (That’s a story for another day — but if you have boundless amounts of “treasures”, do you really want to leave your loved ones guessing what to keep?)

She purged in strange ways. She removed photos from the vintage albums they had always lived in. She tossed things we would have cherished. In the chaos of those last years, she even misplaced my dad’s wedding ring.

When she passed, my brother-in-law took on the insanely Godly task of packing up the house. Two sisters — one who lived too far away (me) and one who couldn’t face it daily — left him with the burden. He packed and cataloged everything, throwing nothing away lest he face the wrath of two mourning daughters.

Here’s the thing: until a person is gone, you truly don’t know what little thing will become important.

We had no closure conversations with her. We never asked for one special thing. As an only child herself, many of the stories vanished the day she did.

Playing Dress-Up Again

Beth and I poured over her costume jewelry, secretly hoping my dad’s ring would appear. We sat on her bed like little girls again, waffling between playing dress-up and realizing with heartbreak that the stories would now remain untold.

We packed it all up, promising to divide it later when our hearts were steadier.

It was exhausting. It was deeply sad. It was laughter mixed with memories. It was also strangely voyeuristic — combing through a life, trying to decide what stays, what goes, what matters.

A Box We Never Knew

Then, in the depths of my brother in law’s Google doc inventory, I spotted something unfamiliar. A box I didn’t recognize.

I knew my parents’ house like the back of my hand. I’d opened every drawer, cupboard, and closet during my years as caregiver. But these boxes? I had never stumbled upon them. Colorful plastic containers, about 8x8. I braced myself for another pile of “don’t-know-what-to-do-with-this.”

Instead, I found exactly what Beth and I had been longing for.

We found our mother.

Rich’s Boxes

Inside were small filing boxes from Rich’s (our old and long closed department store), filled with tiny manila envelopes. Each one was labeled in her handwriting. Not just her handwriting — her handwriting to us.

Our names. Our nicknames. Little notes that seemed ordinary but carried stories only we could hear.

Inside those envelopes were trinkets that might have looked meaningless to anyone else — a perfect attendance pin from church, baby bracelets, birth certificates we had never seen, jewelry from her confirmation, jewelry from her first boyfriend.

But with her handwriting, they became gold. Each envelope said: I kept this for you. It mattered. You mattered.

If you’ve ever lost someone, then you know the earth-shaking feeling of finding something they left just for you. It moves the ground under your feet.

The Best Gift, Saved for Last

I still don’t know how I missed those boxes. I don’t know how Mark packed them without realizing their worth. A part of me even believes he didn’t pack them at all — that somehow, Mom saved the best for last.

And she made sure Beth and I found them together, exactly the way she would have wanted.

It was the simplest gift of love. The greatest gift we could have stumbled upon.

My Vow

That day, I made a vow.

I don’t want my kids to miss out on my handwriting, to have to dig through drawers hoping to find an “I love you, Mom.”

I want them to know that in the simple, everyday moments, I held them in my heart. That I saved a pin, wrote a note, kept a silly thing because it mattered.

I want them to be able to sit, years from now, and still feel me with them.

So I’ve started now. Because now is what matters, and now is what I have.

Thanks, Mom, for the gift — and as always, for teaching me how to be a better mom and a better person.

Love you, Dinner.