For ten years, a stranger sent birthday cards to my son.
Every card came in a plain white envelope. No stamp. No return address. No name. Just one sentence inside.
“I’m glad he’s happy.”
I told myself it was harmless.
Then, on Jamie’s 18th birthday, the card came with a photo from the worst day of my life.
And by dinner, the woman who took the photo was standing on my porch, thanking me for raising her son.
“I’m glad he’s happy.”
The smell of burning butter snapped me back into my kitchen.
“Oh, no,” I muttered, grabbing the pan.
Jamie appeared in the doorway, already grinning. He was six feet tall now, with Bill’s dark hair and my habit of pretending everything was fine.
“Are you trying to burn the house down on my birthday?” he asked.
“It’s not burned,” I said, sliding the pancake onto a plate. “It’s caramelized.”
Jamie appeared in the doorway.
“It smells like a tire fire.”
“You’ll eat it and be grateful.”
He laughed and sat at the counter.
That laugh still got me. Even at 18, even with his knees knocking into my cabinets and his voice too deep for the little boy I still saw when I closed my eyes.
Bill had been gone ten years.
“You’ll eat it and be grateful.”
Ten years of birthdays without him.
Ten years of me lighting candles, fixing leaky faucets, signing school forms, and pretending I never cried in the laundry room.
I had raised Jamie with grocery coupons, stubbornness, and more love than I knew a body could hold.
Outside, the morning air was cool. I crossed the porch in my slippers, running through the party list in my head.
I needed cake, ice, folding chairs, and extra plates.
Then I saw the envelope.
Ten years of birthdays without him.
Plain white. No stamp. No return address.
“Not today,” I whispered.
But of course it was today.
The first one had arrived on Jamie’s ninth birthday, five months after Bill died. One sentence, written in neat blue ink.
“I’m glad he’s happy.”
The next year, another came.
Plain white. No stamp. No return address.
Then another.
Every birthday.
I told Celine once, but even she couldn’t explain it.