It’s my cousin’s birthday.

I don’t hear from her anymore.

She had a baby three years ago. I made her a quilt. A really pretty one. It was bright and modern and fun. It was meant to be used, not stored somewhere so it doesn’t get dirty.

I mailed it to her.

I hadn’t seen her in years.

I hadn’t known she was pregnant.

Still, she’s my cousin.

Our mothers are sisters. They don’t get along very well. Our mothers are not our birth mothers. She was adopted from South America when she was three years old. I was adopted from the hospital where I was born and taken home when I was three days old.

She’s several years younger then me.

I loved her right away.

She lived several states away and we rarely saw each other growing up.

She had some hard times.

Some really hard times.

Nobody likes to talk about it.

Her mother won’t talk about her.

Her mother moved back to her home state.

My cousin lives where she was raised.

I don’t know if she got the baby quilt.

I texted. I Facebook messaged. I tried.

I hope she got it. I hope she uses it. I hope her little girl likes it.

I hope someday she’ll talk to me again.

I hope she has a good birthday.