His doctors ultimately found only mild age-related memory changes.
Nothing close to what he had feared.
But he started keeping a notebook anyway.
“Just in case,” he said.
Two months after his surgery, I drove to Marsh Hollow.
Eleanor’s house was small.
Quiet.
Carefully kept.
The garden had grown wild after her illness.
Her bookshelves were filled with worn mystery novels.
Her kitchen cabinets held mismatched mugs collected over decades.
Then I walked into the bedroom.
Inside the bedside drawer was a shoebox.
Letters.
One for every birthday beginning when I turned eighteen.
Each envelope was sealed.
Each addressed in careful handwriting.
**Happy Birthday, Wherever You Are.**
I sat on the edge of her bed and opened the first one.
Then the second.
Then the third.
By the fifth, I could barely see the words through my tears.
She had followed my life from a distance.
My high school graduation.
