[FULL STORY] I gave my stepmom the a Mother's Day gift, then watched her face as she realized meant.

I gave my stepmom the perfect Mother's Day gift, then watched her face as she realized what it really meant. When my dad married Cassandra, I was 11. Mom had been gone for 13 months.

Melanoma that spread faster than anyone expected. One day, she was complaining about a headache. And 82 days later, I was standing at her grave in a black dress that still had the tags on.

Dad waited exactly 1 year before bringing Cassandra home. She worked at his investment firm, client relations. Perfect teeth, blonde hair that never moved.

The kind of woman who wore heels to other people's barbecues. She makes me happy again, Dad explained, his voice gentle but firm. I need you to try, Emily.

So, I tried. I helped Cassandra move in, carrying boxes of designer shoes to the closet where mom's gardening clothes used to hang. I nodded politely when she rearranged our furniture, replacing family photos with abstract art that opened up the space.

I even smiled when she transformed mom's vegetable garden into a meditation patio because growing our own food is so provincial. For 3 years, I performed the role of grateful step-daughter. I attended her corporate events wearing the dresses she bought me.

I tolerated her friends who cooed about how mature I was for 14. I kept my grief hidden behind perfect grades and false smiles. Dad didn't notice when I stopped laughing, too busy with Cassandra's social calendar and the new clients she brought in.

Too distracted by their couple's retreats and wine club memberships. Meanwhile, I slept with mom's sweater under my pillow until it stopped smelling like her. Cassandra tried in her way.

She bought me expensive birthday gifts, always things she would want. She hosted elaborate dinner parties and introduced me as our daughter to important people who never remembered my name. She even started a college fund for me, making sure everyone knew about her generosity.

But when I got my period for the first time, it was Google that taught me what to do. When I had nightmares about mom dying, it was the family dog who comforted me. The breaking point came during sophomore year.

I was cast as the lead in the school play, the first thing I'd felt passionate about since Mom died. Opening night fell on the same evening as Cassandra's charity gayla. Obviously, you'll need to skip the performance, she said, not looking up from her phone.

The Richardsons are bringing their son. He's at Princeton. Connections, Emily.

Dad started to object, then stopped when Cassandra placed her hand on his arm. It's just a high school play, he finally said. There will be others.

I went to my room and pulled out the antique jewelry box mom had left me. Inside was her wedding ring, a lock of my baby hair, and a journal I'd never opened. Too afraid of confronting her final thoughts.

That night, through tears, I read it cover to cover. Most of it was what you'd expect. Her hopes for my future, memories she cherished, advice she wouldn't be able to give in person.

But the last entry, dated two weeks before she died, was different. If you're reading this, Emily, I need you to know about the safe deposit box. The key is taped inside this cover.

What you find there will change everything. I'm so sorry. The key was small and silver with the bank's name edged into it.

The next day, I skipped school and went to First National. The manager recognized me. Mom's family had banked there for generations.

Your mother said you'd come eventually, he said, leading me to the vault. Inside the box was a USB drive, several folders of documents, and a letter addressed to me in mom's handwriting. My dearest Emily, it began.

By now, Cassandra has probably worked her way into your lives completely. I've known about her for years. I read the entire letter twice, my hands shaking.

Mom had discovered Dad's affair with Cassandra 6 months before her diagnosis. She'd hired a private investigator who documented everything. hotel receipts, text messages, photos of them together while mom was picking me up from soccer practice.

The investigator's report was meticulous, spanning months. There were photographs of dad and Cassandra entering hotels in three different cities. Screenshots of text messages that made my stomach turn.

She's taking Emily to her mother's this weekend. Come over. Can you imagine when we don't have to hide anymore?

Sometimes I wish she would just disappear. That last one was from dad. Sent 4 months before mom got sick.

I flipped through credit card statements showing dinners at restaurants I'd never heard of on nights when dad claimed to be working late. Gift receipts for jewelry that never made it to mom's dresser. A lease agreement for an apartment downtown that wasn't in our family records.

But there was more. The files contained financial records showing that Dad and Cassandra had been systematically transferring funds from Mom's family trust, money meant for me, into offshore accounts. They'd been planning this for years, waiting for the right moment.

Mom's family had built one of the city's largest investment firms over three generations. When she married dad, he was just a promising adviser with ambition. She'd brought him into the company, mentored him, helped him rise to partner.

The trust was her family's legacy, and I was supposed to be its future. I found detailed spreadsheets tracking millions diverted through shell companies, fake client accounts, and manipulated investments. The money moved through a dozen countries before disappearing into numbered accounts.

Dad's signature appeared on every critical document. Cassandra's on most. The worst part, medical records suggesting mom's unexpected decline might not have been so unexpected.

Strange test results, unusual prescriptions, toxicology reports she'd commissioned privately when she became suspicious. I started feeling wrong after our anniversary dinner. Mom wrote, "Just tired at first, then increasingly ill.

The doctors couldn't explain my symptoms. When I began keeping track, I noticed I only felt this way after meals that Thomas prepared specially for me. There were lab reports analyzing hair samples showing elevated levels of heavy metals consistent with long-term poisoning.

Results from tests on food samples from our home, notes from consultations with three different medical specialists who all noted the unusual progression of her symptoms. I can't prove anything," Mom wrote. And by the time you read this, it won't matter for me.

But I couldn't leave you unprotected. The final page of her letter detailed her counter plan, a second secret trust she'd established in my name, the house and business I thought dad controlled, technically mine when I turned 18. Mom had changed her will two weeks before she died.

Working with lawyers Dad didn't know existed. I've made sure that what's rightfully yours remains yours, she wrote. The trustees will contact you on your 18th birthday automatically.

But if you find this letter sooner, you can reach them using the information in the enclosed envelope. They're ready whenever you are. I sat in the bank's private room for hours, absorbing everything.

When I finally emerged, I was different. The grief and confusion that had defined me for 3 years had crystallized into something harder, something focused. I didn't confront dad immediately.

I didn't run away or call the police. I did something more frightening. I became the perfect daughter.

For the next two years, I performed flawlessly. I excelled in school, joined the clubs, Cassandra suggested, attended every mind-numbing corporate function. I wore the right clothes, said the right things, and never ever let them see what I knew.

At night, I meticulously documented their ongoing schemes. Each time dad mentioned a difficult client or complex investment strategy at dinner, I researched the companies involved, tracking the money through their labyrinth of fake entities. I created my own spreadsheets, building on mom's work.

My bedroom became my command center. I installed a hidden safe behind my bookshelf where I kept copies of everything. I recorded conversations at family dinners, business discussions they had when they thought I wasn't listening.

I photographed documents dad brought home and left carelessly on his desk, trusting that his 16-year-old daughter would never understand their significance. Six months after finding mom's letter, I felt ready to contact her trustees. The envelope contained three business cards, a forensic accountant, a lawyer specializing in financial crimes, and a retired judge who had been mom's father's closest friend.

I met them at the judge's home on a Saturday when I was supposedly at debate team practice. I told them everything over the phone, but seeing their faces as they reviewed the actual evidence was different. The accountant closed his eyes briefly when he saw the extent of the fraud.

The lawyer swore under her breath. The judge looked at me with a mix of sadness and cold anger. "Your mother was one of the finest people I've ever known," he said.

"What do you want to do, Emily? " "I had spent months considering my options. I could have exposed everything immediately, sending Dad and Cassandra to prison.

I could have run away, waiting until I turned 18 to claim my inheritance. I could have confronted them, forcing a painful reckoning. Instead, I chose the path mom had started, methodical, precise justice.

I want to learn everything, I told them. About the business, about finance and law, and how to run a company. I want to be ready when I take it all back.

The judge nodded unsurprised. Your mother said you'd say that. She left instructions for us if you chose this path.

For the next 18 months, I lived a double life. At home and school, I was the perfect accomplished daughter that Cassandra could brag about at parties. But three evenings a week, I slipped away to study groups and volunteer work that were actually intensive training sessions with my secret team.

The forensic accountant taught me how to read financial statements, detect fraud, and understand the complex web of transactions that kept the family business running. The lawyer educated me on corporate law, contracts, and the specific legal frameworks that would eventually allow me to seize control. The judge introduced me to his contacts in banking, investment, and regulatory bodies.

People who had respected mom and were disgusted by what had happened to her company. Meanwhile, I worked with mom's lawyers, preparing everything, the trust, the evidence, the plan. I graduated high school at 16, a year early.

Dad and Cassandra were thrilled, their prodigy, heading to Yale early with a full scholarship. "What they didn't know was that I'd also been taking business and finance courses online, learning everything about Dad's company, about the accounts they thought were hidden. "We're so proud of you," Dad said at my small graduation party.

"Just family and a few of their close friends. " "No one from my school, no one who really knew me. You've exceeded all our expectations," Cassandra added, her arm around my shoulder for the photographer they'd hired.

Yale Early Admission. The board is already excited about your future with the firm. I smiled and thanked them, knowing that in less than two years, I would own that board.

The summer before college, Cassandra announced she wanted to adopt me legally. "You're my daughter in every way that matters," she said, touching my cheek during a lunch at her favorite overpriced restaurant. "Let's make it official before you go to college.

" I studied her face, looking for any sign of genuine emotion. There was a certain tension around her eyes, a calculation in the way she glanced at Dad before returning her gaze to me. This wasn't about love.

It was about securing her position. An adopted daughter would strengthen her claim to the family business should anything happen to dad. I smiled and hugged her, whispering that nothing would make me happier.

We should celebrate, Dad said, already signaling for the check. Maybe a weekend in the Hamptons. We could invite the Preston.

Their son is at Harvard Law. That sounds perfect, I replied, thinking of the file I'd compiled on the Preston's failing software company and the mysterious infusion of cash it had received from one of dad's shell corporations last year. That night, I called an emergency meeting with my trustees.

We gathered in the judge's bookline study after I told Dad and Cassandra I was spending the night with a friend to celebrate graduation. They want me to sign adoption papers, I explained. I need to know if that affects our plan.

The lawyer spread documents across the mahogany table. Actually, this could work in our favor. The adoption process requires financial disclosures.

We'll get an updated picture of their assets, and it changes nothing about your mother's trust. That's ironclad. How close are we?

I asked. The accountant adjusted his glasses. We've documented 67% of the missing funds, trace them through four countries to accounts we can identify.

It's more than enough for criminal charges. And the evidence about your mother's illness, the judge asked gently. This was the hardest part for me.

The possibility that dad had not just betrayed mom, but actively poisoned her. The medical experts we'd consulted couldn't definitively prove murder, but the pattern was suspicious enough for an investigation. We keep that separate for now, I decided.

One battle at a time. As I prepared to leave, the judge handed me a small wrapped package. Your mother left this with specific instructions to be given to you when you were ready to move forward.

Inside was a vintage MLANC pen that had belonged to my grandfather. She used this to sign her first major acquisition, the judge explained. Said she wanted you to have it when you were ready to take back what's yours.

I carried that pen with me everywhere after that night. A talisman, a promise. Two weeks later, Mother's Day arrived.

Cassandra had always made a big production of it. expensive brunches, professional photographers to document her mother-daughter bond for social media. This year, she'd planned a garden party for 30 of their closest friends.

The adoption announcement would be the centerpiece. I spent the week before carefully preparing my gift, working late into the night in my room, compiling documents, organizing evidence, crafting the perfect presentation. The irony wasn't lost on me.

This was the most thoughtful gift I'd ever created for her. The morning of the party dawned sunny and mild. Perfect weather for Cassandra's carefully orchestrated event.

The caterers arrived at 7, followed by florists, event planners, and a small army of staff transforming our backyard into an elegant venue that looked nothing like the wild garden mom had loved. I found Cassandra in her dressing room, surrounded by rejected outfit options. "What do you think?

" she asked, holding up two nearly identical cream colored dresses. "The Dior or the Chanel? " the Chanel, I said, noticing how she immediately set aside the Dior I'd selected.

I have something special for you, I told her, handing her an elegantly wrapped box with a silver bow. Oh, you didn't have to, she said, her surprise seeming almost genuine. We both knew I'd never given her a Mother's Day gift before.

I wanted to for today's announcement. She set the box aside. I'll open it later during the party.

More special that way. I'd rather you open it now, I insisted. It's personal.

Something in my tone made her pause. She studied my face, then reached for the box. Inside was a custombound book.

On the cover, embossed in gold, a daughter's gratitude. "Oh, Emily," she breathed, clearly expecting a collection of sentimental photos and tributes. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it.

The first page showed a picture of mom, smiling from before she got sick. "What is this? " she asked, her voice tight.

"Keep going," I said gently. "It gets better. Page by page, the book told the story mom had left me.

hotel receipts, bank statements, medical reports, each carefully annotated in my neat handwriting. I watched her face transform as she turned each page, confusion giving way to shock, then anger, then fear. By the time she reached the section on the diverted trust funds, her makeup had started to run from the sweat beating on her forehead.

This is absurd," she whispered, but kept turning pages, unable to stop. In the final section, details of the restructured trust, the legal proceedings already in motion, and the meeting scheduled tomorrow with the FBI's financial crimes division. Those offshore accounts you and dad set up," I said conversationally, perching on the edge of her vanity.

"They're not as untraceable as you thought. " "Did you know that 17 countries have signed new banking transparency agreements in the last 5 years, or that electronic fund transfers leave timestamps that can be matched to your cell phone's location data? " Her face drained of color.

Your father and I will be very interested in the terms I'm offering," I finished, still smiling as the doorbell rang, announcing the first guests. "Much better than prison," she stood, knocking over her mimosa. "You ungrateful little careful," I whispered.

"Your guests are watching, and I'm still deciding whether to show them what's in chapter 3. " She glanced down at the book, still open to a page showing her text messages to dad from the week mom was hospitalized. Messages complaining about hospital visiting hours interfering with their dinner reservations.

"What do you want? " she hissed, straightening her dress with shaking hands. You're going to go downstairs and host your party.

You're going to smile and laugh and be the perfect hostess. And tomorrow morning at 9:00, you and Dad will meet me at Judge Henderson's office to discuss terms for your continued freedom. Her eyes darted around the room, perhaps looking for a way out, finding none.

This is blackmail. No, I corrected her. This is justice.

With a touch of mercy, if you earn it, I moved toward the door. You have 30 seconds to fix your makeup. People are waiting.

The party lasted three excruciating hours. Cassandra maintained her composure through trembling hands and a fixed smile that never reached her eyes. I played the adoring daughter perfectly, toasting her influence on my life, watching her flinch at each double meaning only we understood.

Emily has been such a blessing, Cassandra told Mr. Henderson, the judge's wife. I couldn't love her more if she were my own blood.

And Cassandra has taught me so much, I added, meeting her gaze steadily, about loyalty, about consequences. Mr. Henderson looked between us, sensing the undercurrent, but unable to place it.

Well, you're obviously wonderful for each other. Dad texted that he was running late from his golf game. Just as well, his gift was waiting in his office, an identical book with additional documents specific to his role in the fraud.

The guests gradually departed as the afternoon waned, complimenting Cassandra on the lovely event and congratulating me on Yale. I stood beside her at the door, accepting hugs from women who smelled of expensive perfume and insecurity, shaking hands with men who'd known my grandfather but couldn't quite remember my name. "Is everything all right with Cass?

" one of dad's partners asked me quietly. "She seems tense. " "Oh, she's just emotional about the adoption," I explained.

"Today means so much to her. " After the last guest left, Cassandra disappeared upstairs. I found her 20 minutes later frantically packing a suitcase.

"Going somewhere? " I asked from the doorway. She whirled around a handful of jewelry clutched in her fist.

You can't prove any of this. It's circumstantial. It's The FBI doesn't think so.

Neither does the SEC. But feel free to run. They're expecting that.

There's an agent parked at the end of our street. Has been for 3 days. This was a bluff.

The authorities weren't involved yet. That was part of the leverage in my negotiation strategy. But Cassandra didn't know that.

She sank onto the bed, her half-packed suitcase open beside her. What happens now? Now we wait for Dad.

Then we talk terms. Dad arrived an hour later, calling Cassandra's name as he entered. I met him in the foyer, his gift in my hands.

"Where's Cass? " "How was the party? " he asked, loosening his tie.

"She's upstairs, and I think you should open this first. " I watched the same sequence of emotions cross his face as he paged through the evidence. Unlike Cassandra, he went completely silent, his lawyer's training kicking in, even in shock.

When he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable. Where did you get all this? Mom left it for me.

along with instructions. Something like pain flickered across his features, quickly suppressed. Emily, whatever you think you know, is documented in triplicate and stored in multiple secure locations.

I finished for him, including evidence about mom's health decline that suggests more than just financial crimes. His face went ashen at that. You can't possibly believe that you poisoned her.

I don't know. The evidence is inconclusive, but strong enough for an investigation if I choose to pursue it. He closed the book carefully, as if it might explode.

What do you want? The same thing I told your wife. 9:00 a.

m. tomorrow. Judge Henderson's office.

We'll discuss how you can avoid prison. That evening, after the guest left, I found Cassandra sitting alone in the dark of mom's former garden, surrounded by the sterile white furniture she'd chosen to replace the wild flowers. "Why now?

" she asked, not looking at me. "Why wait all this time? " I sat beside her, smoothing my dress.

"Mom taught me patience, and I needed to understand everything first. What do you want? " I'd rehearsed this moment for 2 years, imagining satisfaction, maybe even joy.

Instead, looking at this woman who'd helped destroy my mother, I felt hollow. Dad transfers control of the company to me through the original trust mechanism. You both resign publicly, but continue as consultants under my supervision.

The money you diverted returns to the trust. In exchange, I don't pursue criminal charges. " She laughed bitterly.

"You're 16. You can't run a company. I'm almost 17 with a team of mom's trustees who've been waiting for this day.

and I've been training for it half my life. Dad's heavy footsteps approached across the patio. Cassandra's fingers dug into the armrests.

He'll never agree. I stood straightening the necklace mom had left me. He already has.

Check your phone. While we'd been talking, Dad had found his own copy of my Mother's Day gift. His message to Cassandra was just three words.

She knows everything. Dad joined us on the patio, his face hagggered in the fading light. You didn't have to do it this way, he said quietly.

You could have come to me directly. like mom did. I asked when she confronted you about the affair four years ago or when she questioned the trust dispersements.

How did those direct conversations work out? He had no answer for that. The company isn't just numbers on a spreadsheet.

He tried instead. It's relationships. Client trust.

If you force us out, the damage could be already mitigated. I interrupted. Mom's original team is ready to step in.

Most of them never trusted you anyway. They stayed out of loyalty to her memory. Cassandra glared at him.

You said they were all loyal to you, that you'd secured their support. He lied, I told her. Like he lied about the prenup you signed.

The one with the infidelity clause that leaves you with nothing if you divorce. Her head snapped toward him. What prenup?

The one I have a copy of, I said, along with evidence of your continued affair with Ryan Donaghue from legal. Did you really think those hotel charges wouldn't show up in the expense audits? The color drained from her face.

Dad looked confused, then furious as understanding dawned. You told me that was over, he growled. It is, she insisted, but her eyes darted away from his.

Emily is manipulating you. Actually, that's your specialty, I said, standing. I prefer direct approaches.

9:00 tomorrow. Don't be late and don't try to leave town. I have people watching the house.

I left them on the patio, their angry whispers following me inside. In my room, I called Judge Henderson to confirm our meeting, then emailed the full dossier to my trustees with instructions to release it to authorities if I didn't check in by noon the next day. Sleep didn't come easily that night.

I lay awake listening to their muffled arguments down the hall, the occasional sound of something breaking, a door slamming. Around 3:00 in the morning, I heard a car start and drive away. By dawn, the house was silent.

I dressed carefully for the meeting, a conservative suit mom had bought me for my first academic competition. her pearl earrings, minimal makeup, professional, serious, older than my years. When I came downstairs, I found dad alone at the kitchen island, staring into a coffee cup, still wearing yesterday's clothes.

"Where's Cassandra? " I asked, though I already suspected. "Gone," he said flatly.

"Took her jewelry and her car, left her phone, so she couldn't be tracked. " "I'd anticipated this contingency. " "That complicates things, but doesn't change them.

She's not the primary stakeholder anyway. " He looked up, his eyes red- rimmed and hollow. "You look like her," he said unexpectedly.

"Your mother," when she was fighting for something. The comparison both warmed and pained me. "We should go.

The judge doesn't like tardiness. " The meeting was brief but comprehensive. Dad stripped of his usual confidence, signed every document placed before him, power of attorney, transfer of voting rights, resignation letter.

Judge Henderson guided him through each step, his voice neutral, but his eyes cold. You understand that these terms are conditional on your cooperation with the financial recovery team. Any attempt to conceal assets or obstruct the process will trigger the criminal complaints we've prepared.

Dad nodded mechanically. And the company announcement will follow the script provided, citing family succession planning and a desire to honor Catherine's legacy as reasons for the transition. Another nod.

Sign here and here. Initial these pages. When it was done, Judge Henderson slid a final document across the table.

This stipulates that you will not contact Emily directly except through approved channels until she turns 18. All communication goes through my office or the trustees. Dad's head snapped up.

What? That's my daughter. You can't sign it, I said quietly, or I release the medical evidence.

His hand shook as he signed the paper. When he set down the pen, Mom's M Blanc that I'd brought specifically for this purpose. His shoulders slumped with a finality that made him look suddenly old.

"Can I at least explain? " he asked, his voice barely audible. "I've read all your explanations.

I replied, "In your emails to Cassandra, in the memos justifying the transfers, in the statement you prepared for the board last year, evaluating me as a potential future figurehead with limited actual authority. " "I think I understand perfectly. " Judge Henderson ended the meeting, informing Dad that a car was waiting to take him to a hotel.

He would be permitted to return to the house next week to collect personal belongings under supervision. As Dad stood to leave, he paused beside my chair. "Your mother would be proud," he said, and I couldn't tell if he meant it as a compliment or an accusation.

I know," I answered simply. Two months later, I sat at the head of the conference table in what had been Dad's office. The company transition had been announced as a family succession plan, celebrated with press releases about the youngest female CEO in the industry.

Dad remained as a figurehead, controlled by ironclad contracts that monitored his every financial mood. He'd kept the house, his social standing, and avoided prison. In return, I received what was rightfully mine, plus his complete submission to quarterly reviews where I examined every aspect of his professional life.

The trustees formed my executive team, guiding me through the countless decisions required to stabilize the company after years of dad's manipulation. I deferred Yale for a year, focusing instead on practical business education at the firm. Cassandra resurfaced in Miami 3 weeks after she fled.

The FBI picked her up trying to access one of the offshore accounts we'd flagged. She spent two nights in jail before dad's lawyers negotiated her release in exchange for her full cooperation. She returned to Connecticut under strict monitoring, living in a company-owned condo and working as a client liaison with severely limited authority.

The prenup I'd mentioned proved prophetic. Dad filed for divorce, citing abandonment and infidelity, leaving her with only what the separation agreement we'd crafted allowed. She fought it initially, threatening to expose the company's fraud until my lawyers reminded her that she'd be the first target of any investigation.

It wasn't justice for mom. Nothing could be. But it was the beginning of something she'd wanted for me.

Control of my own future, protection of the legacy she'd built, accountability for those who had betrayed her. The search for definitive proof about mom's illness continued quietly. I hired specialists to re-examine tissue samples the hospital had preserved.

Ordered new tests on items from her vanity that I'd kept untouched. Interviewed medical staff who had treated her. The results remained frustratingly inconclusive.

Suspicious patterns, but no smoking gun. Dad maintained his innocence on that front, even in private meetings with his attorneys where he admitted to everything else. The cancer was real, he insisted.

I never touched her medication, never altered her food. I wanted her gone. Yes, I'm guilty of wishing her dead, but not of making it happen.

I didn't know whether to believe him. Part of me needed him to be guilty of everything. A complete monster whose destruction I could pursue without reservation.

Another part desperately wanted this one line to remain uncrossed, preserving some tiny fragment of the father I'd once loved. The company flourished under new management. We unwound dad's complicated schemes, recovered most of the diverted funds, rebuilt client relationships damaged by his shortcuts.

I worked 16-hour days, sleeping on the office couch more often than at home. Home. The house no longer felt like one.

I sold it 6 months after taking control, moving into a downtown apartment within walking distance of the office. Dad relocated to a smaller house in the suburbs, stripped of his country club memberships and most of his social circle when the carefully worded but transparent company statement made it clear he'd been forced out. Last week, I visited Mom's grave for the first time since reading her letter.

I did what you asked, I told her, placing wild flowers against the stone. The company is safe. Your legacy is protected.

I wish you could see it. As I turned to leave, I noticed a familiar figure watching from a distance. Cassandra, clutching a small bouquet of her own.

Our eyes met across the cemetery. She didn't approach, but nodded once before walking away. Some lessons take years to teach.

Some gifts keep giving long after they're open. Every Mother's Day since then, I send Cassandra the same thing. A single photograph of mom smiling in her garden with a note that reads, "Thinking of you today.

" She never responds, but I know she understands. It's the only language we have left.