Hi —

I want to tell you about my Mom.

When I was growing up, she sent greeting cards for everything. Every birthday, every holiday — even the minor ones. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, the first day of school. Real cards, in real envelopes, with her handwriting inside. That was just who she was.

Then she discovered email cards. And the real ones slowed to a trickle.

Now, when a physical card arrives from her — a real one, with a stamp? It means something in a way it never did before. I hold it differently. I keep it.

That feeling is the reason I’m writing you this letter.

My Mom and I have been working on something together. It started at a rest area on the way to a ski mountain in Maine — October 2024. We’d pulled over by a river with the dogs, and I said something about that stretch of road making me want to lock myself in a cabin and write a novel. She said, “I know what you mean. This raging river among the trees and mountains makes you think.”

That was it. A seed.

Then came the drive to Florida — February 2025. My Dad had passed away, and for decades he and Mom had made that drive south together every winter. This was the first year she was making the trip without him. So I drove with her. Rode in Dad’s seat. Read his handwritten notes — where they stopped each year, what the gas prices were, what time they hit each city.

The idea kept growing.

Then came the second drive — February 2026. I was behind the wheel. Mom was, shall we say, actively co-piloting. “Go faster! Pass this car! Get in the right lane!”
I got a speeding ticket. After that, the co-piloting stopped. We started talking about life. Which turned to writing. And right there in the car, we decided: we’re doing this.

We’re writing a novel together. A work of fiction about mothers and daughters — inspired by real life. Our life. And instead of publishing it the usual way, we’re mailing it in chapters. Every month. In a real envelope, with a real stamp and your name on it.

We can’t tell you too much about the story yet — but we can tell you this: it’s about a mother and a daughter who get into more trouble than you’d expect from the two of us. There’s a mystery at the center of it. And a love story neither of us saw coming when we started writing it. There’s suspense. There are secrets. And there’s enough of our real relationship woven into these characters that I’ve already cried writing it.

Each month, you’ll get more than the next pages of the story. There’s a Chapter Note where one of us shares the real memory that inspired the fiction, a personal letter from me, and a few other things we’re tucking into every envelope — because we want opening it to feel like an event, not a delivery. Sometimes we remember the same moment completely differently.

(We usually do.)

And yes — we’re sending it by mail. On purpose. No app. No screen. Just a story that arrives the way good things used to.

A little about us: I’m a television producer. Mom — her grandkids call her Nini, which is how she got her stage name — co-founded an all-women’s Lion’s Club over 30 years ago. She’s the editor. I’m the writer. I write it, then I call her and read it out loud. If she laughs, it stays. If she goes quiet, I start over.

That’s us. At a Red Sox game once — just two fans in the bleachers — Mom decided she was the Security Detail. She used to volunteer at the stadium with my Dad, and apparently that gave her lifetime jurisdiction. Teacher Pointing Finger, telling grown men to behave. I trailed behind with a smile: “Listen, I’m her daughter, and you really don’t want to mess with her.” That’s how we write together too. Mom says exactly what she thinks. I shape it into something you can’t stop reading.

I’m not asking for anything today. Consider this your invitation. If it speaks to you — if you’re someone who’d check the mailbox with a little extra anticipation once a month — visit JulesandNini.com/start. You can add your name to our list or, if you’re already thinking I’m in, join us right there.

And if this letter found the wrong person? Maybe it found the right one to pass it along to. There’s a bookmark tucked inside for exactly that reason.

Thank you for reading a letter from a stranger. That tells me something about you.