When my mom lost her bright red purse after a trip, a stranger found it and called. She only cared about a letter inside, not the wallet or phone. I was stunned. That summer, at 22, I was home post-university, stuck in a limbo of job rejections and late-night cereal. Mom panicked over the missing purse, pacing anxiously. She revealed the letter, kept for 25 years, was vital. The finder mailed it, and Mom’s relief was palpable.
She later shared its story:
at my age, she met Victor, a musician, during a seaside trip. They connected deeply for two days. He gave her the letter, unopened, to read if she ever doubted herself. She carried it through life’s milestones in that purse. Recently, feeling lost, she read it. Victor’s words reminded her of her vibrant youth. She started humming, baking,
and applied for a medical mission in Peru. Victor’s niece later sent his song, “Sunflower Letter,” evoking Mom’s quiet peace. The letter, not a love note, affirmed her worth. Mom went to Peru, returning vibrant. She gave me the purse, with a note urging me to keep something meaningful inside. I wrote my own letter, for me. Sometimes, small things—a letter, a memory—carry us forward, guiding us to remember who we are.
