My son cared more about one anonymous birthday envelope than cake or presents. On his eighteenth birthday, the letter inside changed everything.
I never imagined a plain white envelope could make me uneasy about my own son’s birthday.
The first one arrived when Adrian turned six.
No glitter.
No stickers.
No return address I recognized.
Only our address written in neat, careful handwriting. Inside was a generic birthday postcard with a cartoon balloon on the front and five dollars folded so perfectly it looked pressed.
That was it.
No signature.
