"Annoyingly."
She added a tiny amount of soy sauce while I pretended not to see. After dinner, she rolled into the living room and stopped beside the framed photograph from Ray's shop. Daniel crouched beside her younger self, purple color sample in one hand, smiling at something outside the frame.
"Mommy?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think Daddy knew he was going to die?"
The question froze me. Children ask the questions adults spend months arranging not to face. I sat on the couch.
"No."
"Then why did he write the letter?"
I thought about the night at the kitchen table, about Daniel's tendency to plan for possibilities even while assuming ordinary life would continue.
"Because your dad liked backup plans."
Maisie considered that.
"Like spare batteries?"
"Exactly."
"So the letter was a people battery."
I smiled.
"Something like that."
She looked at the photograph again.
"I'm glad he wrote it."
"Me too."
"Even though it made you cry?"
"Some things can hurt and help at the same time."
Maisie nodded seriously.
"Like stretching."
"That is an extremely practical comparison."
"Miss Rebecca says I'm practical."
"Miss Rebecca says a lot of things."
Maisie rolled toward the hallway.
"Good night."
"Good night, road machine."
She stopped.
"I'm Maisie. The chair is the road machine."