Behind her dresser, I found an old cardboard box filled with letters, medical papers, and one tiny photograph of a baby I didn’t recognize. On top was a note in Mom’s handwriting: “If you ever find this, please don’t be angry with me.” I sat on the floor and kept reading. The baby in the photograph was my older brother, Daniel, who had died before I was born. Mom had never spoken about him. According to the papers, he became seriously ill during one winter and struggled to breathe through the night.
One of the letters was from my grandmother. She reminded Mom how, during Daniel’s final weeks, doctors had encouraged her to keep his room cool and well ventilated because he seemed to breathe easier with fresh air. After he died, Mom apparently couldn’t bring herself to close the bedroom window at night. She wrote that silence frightened her, but the cold air made her feel as though she was still keeping watch over him.
