You've been gone three years today, and this is my yearly letter. I miss you, but things are good here. We're weeks away from selling your house, the one I grew up in. It's hard to believe that empty space once held Christmas mornings and parties and dinners at a full kitchen table. I haven't had a kitchen table in a while. No space in tiny New York apartments. I thought I would be sadder about seeing the house go, but it's been a long three years, and without you and Dad in it, it's just a building. Maybe someone else will have Christmas mornings in it, and that would be OK.
Devon and I are moving to Colorado. There are a lot of big changes coming. We've been talking about it forever, but the move happens this month. We're going to buy a house with the money you and Dad left me. We might even build one. You would have loved the kitchens in the houses we've been looking at. I'd rather have you here, though. There are so many good things happening that I wish you could see.
If I live an average lifespan, I will spend more of my life without you than I have with you. I wonder if there will ever be a time when I don't miss you.
I have so much more to tell you, but it'll have to wait for another day. Give Dad a kiss for me. Try to go easy on him. He adores you.
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