I walked inside, handed the white envelope to my daughter Emily, and watched as twelve-year-old Maya opened it. She pulled out the crisp twenty-dollar bill and smiled at the blue ink. “Thanks, Great-Grandma,” Maya whispered.

For the first time in twelve years, I didn’t feel a chill of dread.

I just felt warmth. I looked at the handwriting, so perfectly preserved in time, and knew that my mother was right there with us in the room. And I know she’ll be there next year, too.