I hesitated.
"Can I ask her to come in before I read it?"
The girl smiled.
"Yeah."
She climbed down.
Then walked toward the door.
I watched her cross the diner.
She pushed it open with both hands.
Then hurried toward the old pickup.
The elderly woman looked at me through the window.
I slowly stood.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then I placed one hand over the patch.
The woman watched.
Her expression changed.
She said something to the girl.
Then began walking toward the diner.
When she entered, I could see the exhaustion in her face.
She was nearly seventy, with silver hair tied behind her head, a dark blue cardigan, and the careful movements of someone whose knees had begun reminding her of their age.
She stopped beside my booth.
"You're her father."
It wasn't a question.
I nodded.
"Yes, ma'am."
She looked toward the patch.
Then toward the little girl.
For a moment, her expression softened.
"My daughter-in-law said you'd recognize it."
The words confused me.
"Daughter-in-law?"
She nodded.
"I'm the little one's other grandmother."
My heart tightened.
The child climbed back into the booth.
The older woman placed one hand against her shoulder.
"My son married your daughter after they moved west."
I stared.
Then looked at the little girl.
"Your dad?"
She lowered her eyes.
"He's in heaven too."
The grandmother's expression changed.
She looked toward me.
"My son died three years ago."
I felt another wave of grief.
The child had lost both parents.
And I'd spent nine years not knowing she existed.
The grandmother pulled out a chair.
Then sat.
She looked at me for a long moment.
"I wasn't sure bringing her here was the right thing."
I nodded.
"I understand."
She continued.
"Your daughter was very clear about what she wanted."
I looked toward the envelope.
The older woman followed my gaze.
"She wrote that before her final hospital stay."
My hands tightened.
The grandmother took a breath.
"She wanted you to know about the little one. But she also wanted her daughter to be old enough to understand that you might need time."
I looked toward the child.
She was studying a menu.
Pretending not to listen.
The grandmother lowered her voice.
"She didn't want this little girl feeling responsible for fixing a grown man's regrets."
The words struck me deeply.
I nodded.
"She shouldn't be."
The grandmother studied my face.
Then said, "Good."