Chapter: The Care Packages (2017–2025)
When the visits stopped, the silence was loud. The front door stayed locked, but I left her key untouched. I didn’t change the lock. I couldn’t. That key was more than metal—it was trust. It was history. It was home, even if she no longer crossed the threshold.
She never said goodbye. But I knew she was still struggling—cut off in ways polite words never described.
So I did what I could.
The first care package was small. A DVD. A handwritten note. Tea bags. Biscuits. Things to remind her of normal days, good days. The kind we once had.
Then came more. A quiet tradition. Each December, I’d send another. A box of warmth to make up for the cold.
She never asked for them. But she never told me to stop, either.
Sometimes I imagined her opening them in silence. Other times, I wondered if someone else did. But I sent them anyway.
Because someone had to care.
And even though she wasn’t allowed to visit anymore—not openly, not without consequence—those packages said what we couldn’t: You still matter.