When my ten-year-old daughter became oddly obsessed with checking the mailbox, I thought it was just a phase. But what I discovered hidden in those letters left me in tears and revealed a secret that changed our lives forever. And I couldn’t be more happy
Hi, I’m Erin, a 40-year-old single mom who adores her daughter, Lily. We’ve been a tight-knit duo since her dad passed away three years ago. Lily is my world: bright, curious, and full of life. Our evenings are usually filled with laughter, homework, and stories.
I work from home as a freelance graphic designer, which lets me spend a lot of time with her. It’s not always easy, but we’ve made a good life for ourselves.
One evening, as we finished dinner, Lily looked at me with those big, curious eyes of hers. “Mom, can I check the mailbox?” she asked out of the blue. It was unusual because she had never shown interest in our mail before. Normally, she’d be more excited about dessert or the latest episode of her favorite TV show.
“Sure, honey. Here’s the key,” I said, handing it over. Lily grabbed the key and dashed outside with a delighted smile. I watched her go, thinking it was just a whim.
The next day, she asked again. “Mom, can I check the mail?” she said, practically bouncing on her toes.
“Go ahead, Lily,” I replied, handing her the key again. She sprinted to the mailbox like it was the most exciting part of her day. This continued every evening. By the fourth day, it had become a routine.
“Mom, is it okay if I check the mail again?” she asked, already reaching for the key.
“Of course,” I said, trying to hide my curiosity. “You seem to really enjoy this, huh?”
“Yep!” she said with a grin before running out the door.
I began to notice other changes in her behavior too. Lily, usually an open book, had started to act secretive. She was more withdrawn, spending long hours in her room, and her usual laughter-filled games had taken on a more somber tone.
“Lily, you okay?” I asked one afternoon when I found her sitting quietly in her room, staring out the window.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, but her voice lacked its usual cheeriness.
Her questions became stranger, too. One evening, as I was tucking her into bed, she looked up at me with those big, thoughtful eyes.
“Mom, do you think people can talk through letters even if they don’t know each other well?” she asked.
“Of course, sweetheart,” I replied, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “People can form beautiful connections through letters.”
She nodded thoughtfully but said no more. The next morning, I saw her slipping something into her backpack before school.
“What’s that, Lily?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, it’s just for a school project,” she said, flashing a quick smile before running out the door.
My curiosity was piqued, but I didn’t want to pry. Still, her behavior weighed heavily on my mind. By the seventh day, I couldn’t take it any longer. Lily was super protective of the mailbox, not letting me open it because it was “a secret,” which by that time really scared me.
“Lily, why won’t you let me check the mail?” I asked one morning as she got ready for school.
“It’s a secret, Mom,” she said, looking up at me with serious eyes. “But it’s a good secret, I promise.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to hide my concern. “I trust you, but you have to promise me you’re not hiding anything dangerous.”
She nodded earnestly. “I promise, Mom. It’s nothing bad.”
When she left for school, with a mix of trepidation and guilt, I opened the mailbox, expecting to find something alarming: perhaps a note from a stranger or some distressing letters.
