"I'm upset about some things I did a long time ago."
The girl looked thoughtful.
Then asked, "Did you make Mom cry?"
I closed my eyes.
"Yes."
She stared at me.
"Did you say sorry?"
My throat tightened.
"Not when I should have."
The child lowered her eyes.
For a moment, she seemed much older than nine.
Then she said, "Mom cried when she talked about you sometimes."
I looked toward her.
She continued.
"But she smiled too."
That sentence nearly broke me.
I stared at the little girl.
Then asked quietly, "Did she tell you stories about me?"
The child nodded.
"Lots."
I swallowed.
"What kind?"
She looked toward my vest.
"She said you could fix motorcycles nobody else could fix."
I smiled sadly.
"Used to."
She continued.
"She said you made pancakes shaped like stars."
I laughed.
"They never looked much like stars."
The girl smiled.
"That's what she said."
For a moment, I could almost hear my daughter laughing in our old kitchen.
The child leaned closer.
"She said you once rode through a storm because she got stuck beside a river."
My expression changed.
I remembered that storm.
Nine years earlier.
Two weeks before the argument at the clubhouse.
My daughter had been traveling along a rural road after heavy rain when her vehicle became trapped near a flooded crossing.
She called me.
I drove toward her in my pickup, brought emergency equipment, and helped her reach a safe location while waiting for professional assistance.
The situation had been frightening.
She was shaking when I found her.
I held her beside the truck while rain hammered against the roof.
She kept saying she was sorry.
I told her she had nothing to apologize for.
Later, we sat inside a diner drinking coffee and laughing about how frightened we'd both been.
I hadn't known she was pregnant.
Hadn't known that she was already making plans to move west.
And hadn't known that within two weeks, I'd destroy the trust that allowed her to call me when she needed help.
I looked toward the child.
"She remembered that?"
The girl nodded.
"She said you came when nobody else knew where she was."
I closed my eyes.
My daughter had remembered one good night even after everything that followed.
That made the regret harder.
Not easier.
I looked toward the envelope again.
Then asked, "Does your grandmother know what's in this?"
The child nodded.
"Most of it."