The parcel constituted a letter, a check of 50,000 USD and a golden ticket to the Vincent’s art exhibition- one of the most anticipated art exhibitions of the year- hand delivered to me every year on my birthday by Adam, the young delivery boy who had grown up, over the years, into a now handsome young man. The parcel never mentioned any details of the sender, and every time I tried asking Adam he refused to answer any of my questions. The first parcel came a day after my fourth birthday, the only time Adam was a day late from his job. At first, Aunt Nell found it very peculiar and was apprehensive of taking the money, and so it stayed there, for a whole year and two months, untouched. I didn’t even get to see the letter. But after Uncle Thomas took Nathan and left the town, she realized that we needed the money. So, for the past 13 years, Aunt Nell and I would wait for my birthday all year round. Sharp at 7, Adam would knock on the door thrice and wait for Aunt Nell to shuffle into her comfy slippers and slide open the glass door. He would greet her politely and then hand the parcel over to her. Aunt Nell would then place it on the small dining table in the middle of the kitchen but would always wait for me to open it, because she said that it belonged to me rightfully and only I should get to decide what to do with it. When I turned 16, Aunt Nell refused to accept the money that came in the parcel anymore, claiming that I needed it more than her. Since then, I had been saving some of the money for my future and spending the rest of it for my college fee. While the money was an integral part of the parcel, the most valuable thing for me was the letter. I had saved all 14 of the letters, always written in blue ink starting with the words, Dear Laura.

The letters were very personal, and it seemed like the person sending them was all too well aware of my life, even though he had never met me. Sometimes they’d be full of advices, sometimes little stories that might be relevant to me, and sometimes on rare occasions, they would also speak of my parents- of how I had a laugh just like my mother’s, or how my hair color lightens to chest-nut brown just like my dad’s in summers. I know it’s silly but all through my childhood, I believed that these letters were sent to me by my father from Heaven. It was only when I turned 12 that I realized the absurdity of the thought, when I told my best friend Timothy about my little secret and he laughed at me for a good thirty minutes straight. I never spoke to him again.

I picked up the letter, heavily scented with lavender and cinnamon an odd combination for a letter paper; it reminded me of Tazo's cafe downtown, one of my favorite dining spots with aunt Nell.

"Whoof"

Burrow called out to me from across the garden. Burrow was our neighbor's dog, the one and only true friend I had. On the loneliest of nights, Burrow would sneak out of Mr. Black's garden to snuggle with me. I saw him leaping across the garden, closing the distance between us. I slid open the glass door and bent down, opening my arms wide to embrace the little pup.

"Oh there you are, I missed you so much. Have you come to wish me?" The little dog whined as I gently got up from the ground, holding the unopened letter in one hand. He eventually wiggled out of my arms to chase after a little sparrow as i sat down on the stone bench in our garden and opened the letter.

"Dear Laura," I smiled at the familiarity of the handwriting, the well memorized curves and bends.

"Happy Birthday. You're 18, I really can't believe it."

Neither can I, honestly.

"Your mother was also 18 when she met your father, and very beautiful and strong. Just like you. She was like you in so many ways. I only met her a few times but I see her in you every single day."

"You are the most perfect little girl I know, smart and kind and beautiful. I am so proud of you. And I know your father would've been too. I'm sorry I can't write much this time, I'm a little under the weather these days. But I just want you to know how happy you make me, just by existing.

P.s Don't forget to be late for the exhibition this year. But then you never take my advice.

Love,

M."