I was seventeen—old enough to want freedom, but still afraid of being alone. That summer, my family went to Canada without me, and the house felt too big and too quiet. Every sound echoed. The nights felt long. They were supposed to be gone for seven days. I worked mornings at a grocery store, ate frozen meals, and slept with the radio on so I wouldn’t feel so alone.
On the seventh day, a postcard arrived. It was written in my mother’s handwriting—neat and cheerful. She said they decided to stop in Vermont to visit friends and would come home two days later than planned. I felt relieved, like the house suddenly felt calm again.
The next two days passed slowly. I kept the postcard with me and read it again and again because it made me feel safe. When my family finally came home, they looked tired but happy—until I showed them the postcard and joked about them staying longer without calling. My father looked confused. My siblings went quiet. My mother laughed at first, then stopped. She said they never sent a postcard. They never went to Vermont. They came straight home from Canada, just like they planned.
Everything felt strange after that. My mother said the handwriting wasn’t hers. My father checked the stamp and date—it was real. It arrived when I said it did. We searched the house, hoping to find some explanation, but found nothing. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how the postcard had made me feel calm and less lonely. It didn’t scare me—it comforted me. Somehow, that made it more disturbing.
Years later, I see it differently. I don’t think it was a trick or something meant to hurt me. I think it was something quieter—maybe my mind trying to protect me. When someone young is alone, the mind looks for safety and fills in the gaps. That summer taught me that comfort can feel very real, even when it isn’t. I still don’t know where the postcard came from, but I know what it gave me: two peaceful days. And that mystery still stays with me.