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The relationship I had with my grandmother was a mix of frustration and quiet affection. Every year on my birthday, she had one strange tradition: she would only hand me a single, old postcard. At the time, I was a teenager, and receiving such a simple, cheap gift felt like a letdown. I would often frown and roll my eyes at the gesture, not understanding the true value of what she was giving me.
When she passed away, I was 17.
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