Growing up, every year on my birthday, my grandma would give me an old postcard. They weren’t fancy or expensive — just faded cards with simple images of beaches, mountains, or cities. At first, I would smile politely, but by the time I turned 13, I started to frown and roll my eyes. “Why can’t Grandma give me something normal like toys or money?” I would think. I didn’t realize there was a much deeper meaning behind her gifts.

By my 17th birthday, I had collected exactly 17 postcards. That same year, my grandma passed away, leaving me heartbroken. I tucked the postcards into a box and didn’t think about them again. Life moved on — I went to college, started a career, got married, and had kids of my own. Twenty years later, at age 37, I returned to my childhood home to help my parents clean out the attic.