I grew up in the late ’80s, on a sleepy street where everyone knew each other. Our neighbors had a big house, but we rarely saw them. I dared my friends to come with me to ring their doorbell. The neighbors looked terrified and slammed the door without a word.
When I told my mom about this, she gasped in horror and revealed that they kept their daughter indoors due to a rare immune condition. She had been homeschooled and isolated.
So I asked my mom if we could find a way to talk. She helped me write a letter. A week later, her parents dropped off a note from her in our mailbox. That started it.
Every week, I wrote to her. I’d describe things we saw outside, and she’d reply with her own drawings of how she imagined them. One day, her parents placed a small lantern in her window. When it glowed, it meant she had a new letter.
