When the deliveries from my son’s father ceased, I was left with a void that needed filling. It may sound futile to label and stamp boxes that would never be mailed, yet I felt compelled to make them look credible, evoking the essence of a “real” delivery. It was essential for my son to remember that he was still cherished.
Using one of those signature United States Postal Service boxes adorned with the familiar red and blue emblem—something his father had often used—I carefully packed the contents. Inside, I placed a few books, some chocolates, baseball cards, a gift card, and a heartfelt note on top: “I love you. I am so proud of you. Love, Mom.”
It had been quite some time since my son received one of those USPS boxes. These packages had once been his father’s way of connecting, an attempt to mask his absence with tangible gifts. They arrived monthly, turning the mundane act of receiving mail into a moment of joy. The thrill of unboxing and wondering what treasures lay inside was always overshadowed by the deeper feeling of being thought of. These deliveries, though fleeting, made his father’s role seem less ephemeral.
But then, without warning, the boxes stopped arriving.
Winter settled in, cold and gray, and not a single package came. The holiday season passed without a word from his father, and the silence stretched through spring. After reaching out to various family members, I learned that nothing had happened to him; he simply chose to disengage.
One day, while we walked home from school, my son asked, “Why doesn’t he send me boxes anymore? Is it because I’m older?” His voice quivered as tears threatened to spill. Watching my sweet ten-year-old grapple with this disappointment shattered my heart. Why couldn’t his father step up? I had spent years trying to shield my son from the fallout of his father’s choices, but this time, I couldn’t hide the truth. The hurt was too profound.
His stepfather, Derek, shared his thoughts one night as we prepared for bed. “I can’t imagine disappointing a child like this,” he said. Derek was a loving presence, always there for my son—whether it was nursing him through illness or cheering him on at baseball games. Their bond blossomed the moment they met when my son was just a toddler, peeking out from beneath the coffee table.
As the months passed with no contact, it seemed the absence of boxes had become the new norm. My son stopped rushing to the doorman to inquire about deliveries, and he ceased asking me to check the mail. Each time his father’s neglect hurt him, it felt like digging in sand—no matter how deep you go, it never seems to end. I realized there was no depth to which his father wouldn’t sink when it came to causing pain.
In response, I initiated a new tradition of “sending” packages occasionally to remind my son how loved he truly was. I never actually mailed them; instead, I left them on our welcome mat or by the shoe bench. Each surprise brought a smile to his face. Though he knew they came from me, they served as a gentle reminder that he was not forgotten. These gifts were modest, yet they conveyed that he wasn’t too old for a little extra affection.
“Thanks for remembering, Mom,” he said one night as he settled into bed. “Even if the boxes don’t come from the post office anymore, they still mean a lot.” I blinked back tears as I kissed his forehead goodnight and then retrieved another USPS box from the closet for his next surprise.
In moments like these, I found a way to fill the void left by his father’s absence, ensuring my son knew he was cherished.
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