That night, I opened the jar and spread the jam on a piece of toast. As the familiar, tart sweetness hit my tongue, I didn’t feel the haunting mystery I had felt for the last twenty years.

For the first time since my mother died, I just felt her love, as real and tangible as the glass jar sitting on my counter.

Next July, there won’t be a mystery jar on my porch. But my kitchen will smell like blackberries, and the recipe will finally be exactly where it belongs.