I looked down at the envelope.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Finally, I asked, "May I read it?"
The grandmother nodded.
"Yes."
The child looked up.
Her expression became serious.
"Mom said you have to read all of it."
I smiled faintly.
"I will."
She pointed toward the patch.
"And you can't take that off just because you're mad."
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Then I looked at her.
"No, sweetheart."
My voice broke.
"I won't."
I opened the envelope.
Inside were four handwritten pages.
A photograph.
And a smaller sealed packet labeled For later.
The first line made my chest ache.
Dad, if you're reading this, my little girl has finally found you.
I covered my mouth.
Then kept reading.
I don't know what she looks like sitting across from you. Maybe she's wearing the pink coat she loves. Maybe she's frightened. Maybe she's talking so much you can barely get a word in.
I looked toward the child.
She was quietly coloring a picture on the back of a paper placemat.
My daughter had known.
Even while dying, she'd imagined this moment.
I hope you let her finish sewing before you ask questions. She's been practicing for months, and she is very proud of herself.
A tear slipped onto the page.
I wiped it carefully.
Then continued.
The patch is the one I made when I was nine. I kept it after you took it off. I thought about throwing it away a hundred times, but I never could.
I closed my eyes.
The clubhouse.
The table.
My daughter's face.
The little patch lying between us.
I could see it all.
I want you to understand something before you read the rest.
I took a breath.
I didn't leave because I stopped loving you.
The words blurred.
I left because loving you had begun to hurt more than staying away.
I lowered the letter.
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe properly.
The grandmother remained quiet.
The child continued coloring.
Then I forced myself to read.
You were supposed to be the person who listened when everybody else doubted me. Instead, you asked me to prove I deserved the trust you'd given me my whole life.
I pressed one hand against my eyes.
She was right.
Every word.
I wasn't asking you to protect me from the truth. I was asking you to help find it.
I looked toward the grandmother.
She nodded gently.
"Keep going."