thing.
I never mentioned to her that the duck was made by my grandmother. It had accidentally ended up in the box when I was cleaning out the closet. I’d lost track of it and honestly assumed it got tossed out or buried in a toy bin somewhere.
To see it back? That hit me in the chest.
I sat on the floor, letter trembling in my hands, because it wasn’t just about the duck. It was what the letter said after:
“I’ve been through hell this past year. I wouldn’t have made it without the kindness of a stranger. This duck lived on my daughter’s nightstand. She used to say it kept the bad dreams away. But she’s better now, and I think it’s time it comes home.”
That’s when I started crying like someone broke me open.
Because, truth be told, I hadn’t felt like myself for months.
