My drawings.
It hit me like a punch. When I was six or seven, I used to slip little crayon doodles under doors throughout the building—stick figures, uneven hearts, suns with jagged rays. I especially left them at her door. She always seemed so alone. She never responded. Never thanked me. I thought she had thrown them away.
But there they were. Preserved. Framed. Arranged carefully, like a small museum of childhood joy.
I stepped closer. I recognized them all—the purple butterfly after I learned to ride a bike, the crooked house with smoke curling from the chimney, the “potato cat” with tiny legs. The colors were still bright, the paper still vibrant. She had kept them.
My throat tightened.
“There’s more,” one officer said softly.
In a corner, under a faded armchair, was a wooden box. Inside were stacks of postcards, handmade holiday cards, and little notes I had nearly forgotten—things I’d handed out at Halloween, Christmas, or just to make someone smile.
She had saved every single one.
Some were bent from being held. Others had tape marks, evidence they had once been displayed. A few were tucked in plastic sleeves, labeled with delicate handwriting and dates. Every piece treated with care, almost reverence.
I sat on the floor, sifting through the memories. She had treasured what I thought was insignificant. She had protected it, cherished it, even though we had never spoken.
“She told her social worker you were the only one who ever showed her kindness without expecting anything in return,” the officer said quietly.
