She glanced toward the patch.
“Mom said you might cry.”
I laughed through tears.
“She knew me pretty well.”
Rosie looked uncertain.
“Are you mad?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“At Grandma?”
I looked toward the window.
Evelyn stood beside the truck.
She wasn't trying to hide.
She simply looked as though she had spent years carrying something too heavy to set down.
I took a breath.
“No.”
Rosie nodded slowly.
Then pointed toward the envelope.
“You're supposed to read it.”
I looked down.
“Did your mom tell you what's inside?”
“Some.”
“What did she say?”
Rosie considered.
“She said it was a story about why people sometimes get lost even when they know the way home.”
My chest tightened.
I stared at her.
Then, carefully, I opened the envelope.
Inside were six pages of folded notebook paper.
A photograph.
And a small pressed flower that crumbled slightly when I touched it.
The first page began with a sentence I hadn't imagined hearing again.
Dad, you did come when I called.
I stopped breathing.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My hands shook so badly that Rosie reached over and gently steadied the paper.
“It's okay,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
She gave me a small, serious smile.
“Mom said you should take your time.”
So I did.
I unfolded the rest of the letter.
And began reading the words my daughter had spent nine years learning how to say.
Dad,
If this letter reaches you, then Rosie has found you, and I hope she's managed to sew the patch back where it belongs.
She practiced for months. Please don't tell her if the stitches are crooked. She already knows, and she's trying very hard.
I laughed softly.
Then wiped my eyes.
I don't know where to begin. There are things I owe you that I should have said years ago, and the hardest one is also the simplest.
I'm sorry.
I stared.
For a moment, the letters blurred.
I'm sorry for what I said after the accident. I'm sorry I made you feel that saving my life was something you should regret. I was injured, frightened, and so angry that Evan was gone that I wanted somebody to blame.
You were there.
You were the person I loved most who was still standing in front of me.
So I blamed you.
I covered my mouth.
Rosie watched quietly.
I continued.
For a long time, I told myself I had every right to be angry. And I did have a right to grieve. But grief didn't give me the right to make you responsible for something you couldn't control.