Itwasacoldafternooninwinter.Myoldestson,Stephen,wasatschool,andReed,myhusband,atwork.My littleonesweresittingaroundthekitchentable.Tomwasperfectingapaperplane,whileSamwas onanoilpainting.

ButLaura,ouronlydaughter,satquietlyandwas inherproject.Everyonceinawhileshewouldaskhowto thenameofsomeoneinourfamily,thencarefullyformthelettersonebyone.Next,shewouldaddflowerswithsmallitems.Shefinishedoffeachwithasunintheupperrighthandcorner.Holdingthemateyelevel,sheletoutalongsigh(叹息)of .

“Whatareyoudoing,Honey?”Iasked.Shelookedquicklyatherbrotherbeforelookingbackatme.“It’sa .”shesaid,coveringupherworkwithherhands.

Next,sheputherworkintoabox.Whenshehadfinished,shedisappearedupthestairs.

Itwasn’tuntillaterthateveningthatI a“mailbox”tapedontothedoorstoeachofourbedrooms.Therewerelittlenotessayingthatshelovedallofus.Shehadn’t SamorbabyPaul.Theyarepagesofcoloredscenesincludingflowerswithhappyfaces.“Hecan’treadyet,”shewhispered(低声说),“ hecanlookatthepictures.”EachtimeIreceivedoneofmylittlegirl’sgifts,it myheart.Iwastouchedathowcarefullyshepaidattentiontowhatwronghappenedtous.WhenStephenlostabaseballgame,therewasalettertellinghimshethoughthewasthebestballplayerinthewholeworld.AfterIhada day,therewasamessagethankingmeformyefforts.

Thissamelittlegirlisgrownnow,drivingoffeverydaytothestatecollege,butsomethingsaboutherhave changed.YesterdayIfoundalovenotenexttomybedside.“Thanksforalwaysbeingthe