I nodded.
"I know."
She looked down at her embroidery.
Then asked, "Can you call?"
I smiled.
"Yes."
"When?"
I glanced toward the grandmother.
She nodded.
I looked back.
"Sunday afternoons at four?"
The girl considered.
"Every Sunday?"
I swallowed.
"Every Sunday."
She held up her little finger.
I linked mine with hers.
Then she said very seriously, "You can't forget."
I nodded.
"I won't."
The grandmother watched us.
Her expression softened.
Later that evening, after the child went inside, the older woman spoke to me privately.
"She's going to remember that promise."
I nodded.
"So will I."
She studied me.
"Good."
Then she asked, "What are you planning to do about the club?"
I looked toward the empty street.
"I want the records examined."
She nodded.
"And after that?"
I considered.
"If my daughter was falsely accused, the truth needs to be made public."
The grandmother remained quiet.
I continued.
"But I also need to admit what I did."
She looked toward me.
"What do you mean?"
I swallowed.
"The club didn't force me to humiliate her."
The older woman's expression changed.
I continued.
"Even if somebody forged those documents, I chose to believe them without giving her a fair hearing."
I looked toward the stars.
"That's mine to answer for."
The grandmother watched me for several seconds.
Then nodded slowly.
"I think she would've wanted you to understand that."
My throat tightened.
I looked toward the house.
Through the window, I could see the little girl at the kitchen table.
She was showing her embroidery to a photograph of her mother.
Talking to it.
Smiling.
As though her mother were still there listening.
I looked away.
The grandmother noticed.
She placed one hand against my arm.
"She does that sometimes."
I nodded.
The older woman continued.
"I don't stop her."
I swallowed.
"Neither would I."
For a moment, we stood together beneath the porch light.
Then I asked a question I'd been afraid to ask.
"Where is my daughter buried?"
The grandmother's eyes filled.
She explained that the family had chosen a small memorial garden at a cemetery outside town.
My daughter had requested a simple marker.
No elaborate monument.
Just her name.
Her dates.
And a small blue star.
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
The blue star.
The thing she'd made when she was nine.
The thing I'd carried over my heart for twenty-one years.
The thing I'd torn away in anger.