After months of checking the mail, it dawned on my 5-year-old that something was amiss.

Once all of it had been sorted, there was never any mail left for her.

Why would there be? She's at that glorious age when she doesn't get any bills; she generates them. You remember those wonderful years when mail was infrequent, but almost always good. What's the worst thing a 5-year-old gets in the mail? A coupon that can be used to harangue parents into a trip to the toy store because you're so special the store sent you a $1 gift card?

But she hadn't even received anything like that for a while, and she was feeling deflated. And, for unrelated reasons, I felt compelled to pump up her spirits.

So I ordered a few pieces of cheap costume jewelry online. The packages trickled in, and she was overjoyed. The thought crossed my mind that I could buy an awful lot of happy moments for 99 cents and free shipping, so I ordered more.

It wasn't until the mail stopped coming that I realized that I'd really spent about $10 on future disappointment. And it wasn't until days later that it dawned on me I could have (should have) just written her a letter using words she can read by herself: "Dear Sloane, You are fun. Love, Mom."

I could have sent a postcard. A greeting card. An envelope containing just confetti. Instead, she has faux pearls, the oddest colored "ruby" ring I've ever seen, and some of the most dazzling rhinestones you can get for under a buck, along with the expectation that more treasure will be revealed every time she opens the mailbox.

Enter the prodigal son, fresh off the path of destruction and ready to spread joy throughout the world, starting with a mom saddened by the realization that the regular arrival of greeting cards had passed away with a generation of loved ones. He thought of his sister, so easy to torment, but also easy to please.

He grabbed a pen and paper, spent a few minutes writing and decorating a note, tucked it into an envelope and addressed it to his sister. Later he encouraged her to look in the mailbox, and she came inside bragging that she was the only one who had mail.

Neither of them offered to show me the letter, but I didn't need to see the words to know that the message was meant for me, too, or that it might be one of the clearest expressions of love this not-quite-a-teen will never send me.

When she's not being a reporter, Treena Shapiro is busy with her real job, raising a son and daughter. See her blog at www.HonoluluAdvertiser.com/Blogs.