The words stung, but before I could react, he handed me a faded fabric bag.

My name was stitched onto it in thread slightly crooked, like she’d rushed but still wanted it perfect.

“She made this for you,” he said. “Said you’d need it someday.”

My hands trembled as I opened it.

Inside were tiny crocheted hats, soft sweaters, and small blankets — each one carefully labeled with my children’s names in her handwriting.

Nestled between the folds of yarn were letters.

Several of them.