Grandma Bess was the first person who had ever loved me unconditionally and without limit. Losing her felt like losing gravity entirely.
A week after the funeral, I went back to pack up her belongings. At the back of her closet, behind two winter coats, I found the garment bag.
I unzipped it, and the ivory silk dress was exactly as I remembered. It still smelled faintly of her, and I stood there holding it against my chest.
I remembered the promise I had made at eighteen on that porch. I was wearing this dress, whatever alterations it took.
I am not a seamstress, but Grandma Bess had taught me to handle old fabric gently. I set up at her kitchen table with her battered sewing kit.
I was twenty minutes into working on the lining when I felt a small, firm bump. It was beneath the bodice, just below the left side seam.
When I pressed it gently, it crinkled like paper. I found my seam ripper and worked the stitches loose, slowly and deliberately.
I uncovered a tiny hidden pocket sewn into the lining with perfectly neat stitches. Inside was a folded letter, the paper yellowed and soft with age.
The handwriting on the front was unmistakable. My hands started trembling before I had even unfolded it.
