Now Rosie was sitting beside me, asking whether I was her grandfather as though the answer were the most natural thing in the world.
I cleared my throat.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
She looked toward the yellow envelope.
“Did Mom say anything bad about you?”
The question surprised me.
I thought carefully.
“No.”
Rosie frowned.
“Anything?”
I shook my head.
“She said she'd been angry for a long time. But she said she loved me.”
The little girl looked down.
For a moment, her expression became serious.
Then she whispered, “Mom got angry sometimes too.”
I waited.
Rosie continued.
“When she was sick, she got angry because she couldn't do things anymore.”
My chest tightened.
She stared at the table.
“Sometimes she'd say sorry afterward.”
I nodded.
“That's something grown-ups have to learn to do.”
Rosie looked up.
“Do you know how?”
I smiled sadly.
“I'm still learning.”
She considered that.
Then nodded as though my answer was acceptable.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked something I hadn't expected.
“Are you going to disappear?”
My chest tightened so quickly that I struggled to breathe.
I looked directly at her.
“What do you mean?”
She traced one finger around the edge of the table.
“Daddy disappeared before I was born.”
I swallowed.
“Your daddy died in an accident.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
Then her voice became quieter.
“Mom disappeared last winter.”
I stared.
Rosie continued.
“Grandma says she's not coming back. I know that.”
Her eyes filled.
“But I don't like when people leave.”
I wanted to promise her that I would never disappear.
Wanted to tell her she would never lose anybody again.
But she was nine years old, and she'd already learned something terrible about promises adults couldn't always keep.
So I took a breath.
“Rosie, I can't promise that nothing bad will ever happen.”
She looked down.
I continued.
“But I can promise something else.”
She raised her eyes.
“When I say I'm coming to see you, I'll come if I can. If something changes, I'll tell you. And if I make a mistake, I won't pretend it didn't happen.”
She studied me.
For several seconds, she remained quiet.
Then asked, “Can I call you?”
I smiled.
“Anytime.”
“Even if it's late?”
I felt tears rise.
“Especially if it's late.”
She thought about that.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
For a moment, she seemed satisfied.
Then she returned to the most important question in her world.
“Can you eat pancakes with me?”
I laughed.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
And when Lou arrived carrying two enormous plates, I realized it was the first meal in nine years that I'd wanted to share with somebody who belonged to my family.