The Unsolved Diaries: People Talk About Their Life’s Lingering Mysteries

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Love Letters from the Unsolved

Every Valentine’s Day for the last ten to twelve years, I’ve been sent a “secret admirer” card. Same handwriting, always all caps, always bearing a postmark from a London sorting office. To this day, I have been unable to determine who’s sending it.

My biggest suspicion is that it’s either my mother or my sister, my evidence being that the cards began when I was in my teenage years when I was a weird-looking, very socially awkward teen that a girl would have to be off her rocker to fancy, and the fact that there’s no way in f*ck that someone who wasn’t family would keep it up that long. But I’ve asked them about it numerous times, and they continue to budge that it’s not them. I’ve asked other members of my family and they insist it’s not them either. I’ve tried getting angry and imploring the whole family that it’s getting annoying and I’d rather know it’s them than keep getting bugged by not knowing who the admirer is. Yet still, the cards arrive.