Instead of attending the church service he knew his mother would have bitterly opposed, Goat paced through the two rooms she’d lived in for the last ten years. The funeral was his aunt’s idea. The sister she’d never got along with, but who was willing to do everything. And pay for it.
He found a box of postcards in the bedroom closet. He pulled a few from the middle. They’d come from all over the world, but always from the same person, only ever signing, “Love, S.”
The first card was thirty years old. The last postmarked a week ago.