A vintage-style illustration of a crinkled envelope addressed to "Jonathan Smth" on a dark wooden desk under a warm desk lamp.

Content: A plain white envelope, unmarked, crinkled, worn. It lay upon my desk as if I had placed it there myself before I had left for work. No return address nor a postage stamp. My feet stayed planted on the floor, unable to move, as confusion washed over me. I hesitated. I could have thrown it out right there and then, but something about it felt off. It bore my full name, in a cursive I knew too well and hadn’t seen since highschool. It was my handwriting. My brows crinkled as I tentatively tore open the envelope, and began reading. California is beautiful. Every morning I wake to the light flooding through my curtains. It still feels like the first time I arrived. That feeling hasn't dulled, not even after all this time. Stanford is everything I dreamed of. More even. It's all I have ever wanted and all I have worked for. My soul seems to be home finally, able to rest, satisfied as if this is what it's been seeking for the longest time. I am happy, beyond happy. I don’t think I would ask for anything more, and I am grateful for everything that I have been given. But the price was steep. Mom didn’t want me to go. I begged, pleaded, and argued. Nothing worked. So I lied. I had to. I told her that she was right and that I was going to stay in the city for college, all while I accepted Stanford's offer. She found out months later. She was consumed with anger. We haven't spoken since. I think about them a lot. I wonder if they are doing well, if they have forgiven me. Did See more