She was turning thirteen, and I couldn’t be there. Again. So I sent a box—one more gift she might never see. I tried my best to do enough, until the day a letter showed up on my porch. Inside, in shaky handwriting: “Why did you forget me, Mom?”
I wrapped the dress carefully, folding soft tissue around each layer of fabric like it was gold.
My fingers moved slowly, almost like I was scared the dress would disappear if I touched it wrong.
It was pale blue, the kind of blue that reminded me of the sky right before sunset — soft, hopeful.
The skirt flowed like water, and the satin waist caught the light just enough to shine.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
It was the kind of dress a girl should feel proud to twirl in.
Grown-up, but still sweet. The shoes sparkled just enough. Not too flashy. Just right for dancing.
I held the note between my fingers for a moment before writing. My hand shook. My heart did, too.
Happy 13th birthday, sweetheart. I’m sorry we can’t be together. I know it’s been so long.
