“What do you mean?” Renee let go of my hands, turned, and walked back over to her station. I followed her quietly. She opened the bottom drawer of her cabinet—the one where she kept her purse and personal items.

She rummaged around beneath a pile of magazines and pulled out a sealed white envelope.

The edges of the paper were soft and frayed, clearly having been moved, saved, touched, and moved again over a very long period of time. She turned back to me and pressed it into my shaking hands. “She left this with me two summers ago,” Renee said softly.

“Right after she got her initial diagnosis. Before she even told you how bad it really was. She made me promise to keep it safe. She said, ‘Give it to my girl when she finally comes in to cancel my chair. Because I know she’s going to wait a long time.'” I stood there in the middle of the silent salon, staring down at the envelope.

Across the front, in my mother’s elegant, looping cursive, were the words: For my beautiful girl, whenever you are ready. My fingers were trembling so violently I could barely tear the paper. I broke the worn adhesive seal and pulled out a folded piece of heavy cardstock, along with something small and hard wrapped in tissue paper.

I opened the letter first. My dearest girl, If you are reading this, it means you finally walked into Renee’s salon. I told Renee you would probably take a year. You were always my stubborn one, clinging to the things you loved with both hands, terrified of letting go.

It’s one of the things I love most about you, but it’s also the thing that holds you back.

I know how hard this past year has been for you. I know you’ve been carrying the weight of my passing like a heavy stone in your pocket.

I also know that you have been using your grief as a shield. You’ve been staying in that job you hate, living a life that is too small for you, because it feels safe. You’ve convinced yourself that holding onto the past is the only way to honor me.

It isn’t. I didn’t spend thirty years sitting in this chair, gossiping about the world with Renee, just to watch my brilliant daughter stop living her life the moment I had to leave mine. I want you to live. I want you to take the terrifying leaps.

I want you to make messes, make mistakes, and make a life that is so big and loud that I can feel it wherever I am. I stopped reading for a moment, letting out a ragged sob. Renee placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, rubbing my back in slow, steady circles.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and looked at the small object wrapped in tissue paper that had fallen into my palm. I unwrapped it carefully.