In my 40s, I spent summers with my widowed mother in England. Before returning to New York, I would write playful notes and hide them around her house. Under the silver candlestick, she discovered: "The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker — and your daughter — love you." For weeks after I left, she would call and laugh. "I found another one of your little notes!" Cleaning out her house after she died, I found a box in her bedroom. Inside was every note I'd given her, organized by year — a gift she gave back to me. — Jennifer Fell Hayes

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