This year, Mom let us come out on our own. Said we were old enough.

We didn’t talk much. Just traced the letters in silence—ALFRED DAVID BRAZEL—and tried to feel something other than that empty stretch of what if.

Then my brother pulled something out of his jacket. A little envelope. Said it came in the mail two days ago, addressed to “The Brazel Kids.” No return address. Just typed letters. No stamps.