Growing up, every year on my birthday, my grandma would give me an old postcard. They weren’t fancy or expensive — just faded cards with simple images of beaches, mountains, or cities. At first, I would smile politely, but by the time I turned 13, I started to frown and roll my eyes. “Why can’t Grandma give me something normal like toys or money?” I would think. I didn’t realize there was a much deeper meaning behind her gifts. By my 17th birthday, I had collected exactly 17 postcards. That same year, my grandma passed away, leaving me heartbroken.
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