She finally received it one bright summer day– holding it made her giddy, the way she used to feel racing across the playground, breathless and certain nothing could stop her. Oh, to be that free again. It was smaller than she’d imagined, light in her hands. She turned it over, tracing the edges as if testing whether it was real. For a long moment, she stood by the mailbox smiling before carrying it inside and placing it carefully on her dresser.

Months turned to years, and it became something she’d negotiate with: the timing was wrong. Waiting was smarter. Money was tight. Her son was too young. Needing the space, she moved it from the top of the dresser into a drawer. Some nights she would open the drawer to remind herself her dreams will come true. Someday, she promised herself. Not now– but someday soon. 

He found it at the bottom of his mother’s old dresser before the closing. Untouched. The passport had no stamps, no creases, nothing to prove it had ever been used at all– except the expiration date, which had passed years after she did.