I lost my wife the day our triplets were born—ten years later, we found a box on our porch labeled, “To my beautiful daughters. Love, Mom.”

she love us?” Linzie asked.

The question broke me.

“More than anything, sweetheart.”

“How do you know?” Ivy whispered.

I looked at the box.

The question broke me.

At the letters.

At the notebook.

At ten years of small kindnesses I had mistaken for coincidence.

“Because she found ways to love you before she ever met you.”

“She found ways to love you before she continue reading …