The morning of December 14th is always the hardest day of the year for me.

My name is Regina, though everyone who knows me well calls me Reggie.

I was pouring my first cup of coffee when the knock came. I wasn’t expecting anyone. My 45th birthday was not a day I celebrated. For the last 31 years, it had been the day I mourned.

My 45th birthday was not a day I celebrated.

I set down my cup and went to the door. When I opened it, my heart almost stopped.

The man standing on my porch had my late brother’s eyes, the same sharp jaw, and the crooked smile that always pulled higher on the left side. He was holding a small bouquet and a sealed envelope.

For a long moment, my brain simply refused to process any of it. I stood there, gripping the doorframe and telling myself to breathe. No, that couldn’t be him. Daniel had been buried for 31 years.

He was holding a small bouquet and a sealed envelope.

Then I noticed something strange. The man shifted his weight, and when he did, I saw it clearly. He limped on his right leg. A small, settled limp, the kind that has been there a long time.

Daniel had never limped. Which meant that the man in front of me was not a ghost.

He held out the envelope. I hesitated before taking it and opened the flap slowly.

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