Her voice in my bones

They started arriving two days after my uncle's visit.

At first, one envelope.

Then three.

Then a stack so thick the nurse had to bring a rubber band to keep them together.

> All from "concerned family."

All signed with love,

but folded in guilt.

---

I opened the first one like it might explode.

It didn't.

But the words did.

> "We miss the old you."

I stopped reading after that line.

Because the old me wasn't missing.

She was buried —

under their comfort.

Their lies.

Their version of "love" that came with conditions.

---

The second letter tried harder.

> "We just want to reconnect."

Funny how connection becomes a priority once you start talking like you're never coming back.

---

The third one?

It had no apology.

Just a list of things I should be doing now that I was "better."

> "You should come home."

"You should call."

"You should forgive."

All dressed up as concern.

But I've seen that outfit before.

It's control in a cardigan.

---

So I burned them.

One by one.

Not out of anger.

Not even rebellion.

I just didn't want their version of me whispering in the dark anymore.

---

The nurse asked if I wanted to keep any of them.

I shook my head.

> "Let the ashes keep the words," I said.

"They wear them better than I ever could."