Growing up, every year on my birthday, my grandma would give me an old postcard.

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.

I tucked the postcards into a box and didn’t think about them again. Life moved on — I went to college, started a career, got married, and had kids of my own.

Twenty years later, at age 37, I returned to my childhood home to help my parents clean out the attic.