I was thirty-two years old when I learned that I was never truly an orphan. By that point, I believed I had already buried three people: my mother, my father, and later my grandmother. At least, that was the story I had lived with.

The letter arrived three days after her funeral.

The kitchen looked exactly the same.
The same chipped table.
The same outdated vinyl floor.
The same empty chair, her cardigan still draped over the back like she might return at any moment.
The air carried dust and a faint trace of cinnamon, as if the house itself was trying not to forget her.

I filled the kettle and set out two cups—out of habit.

The envelope lay in front of me, my name handwritten on the front.

I stared at it for a full minute.

“No,” I whispered. “That’s impossible.”

Still, I made the tea she never liked, because that’s exactly what she would have done.
Kettle on. Two cups out.
Even though one of us was undeniably gone.

I finally opened the envelope.

“You’re going to ruin your teeth, sweetheart,” she used to scold whenever I added too much sugar.

“You like it sweet too,” I’d tease back.

“That doesn’t make me wrong,” she’d reply, offended but smiling.

The kettle screamed. I poured the water. I sat down. Then I read.

Her words struck harder than any eulogy.

In an instant, I was six years old again.

My girl,
the letter began.

If you’re reading this, my stubborn heart has finally surrendered. I’m sorry I’m leaving you alone—again.

Again?

I frowned, but kept going.

Before I tell you the hardest truth, remember this: you were always wanted. Never doubt that. Not even once.

And suddenly, I was six again.

“They didn’t feel anything.”