My sister brought coffee.
A peace offering from people raised in the same house.
I placed the letters on the workbench.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
She did not defend herself.
That helped.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“I know.”
“I was wrong.”
I looked at her.
She continued.
“Not necessarily at first.”
“When he contacted me, your wife had just had the baby.”
“You had enough.”
“Then your wife got sick.”
“I kept waiting for a better time.”
“There wasn't one.”
“After she died…”
Her eyes filled.
“I thought telling you your father was alive would break whatever pieces you had left.”
I looked toward the office.
My daughter was coloring something despite supposedly doing math.
“She saved me.”
My sister smiled.
“Yes.”
“I still had the right to know.”
“Yes.”
“I might not forgive you quickly.”
“I know.”
I touched one bundle of letters.
“But I don't want this to become another nine-year silence.”
My sister cried.
I hated when she cried.
It made maintaining anger difficult.
I hugged her.
Not because everything was repaired.
Because repair had to start somewhere.
She whispered against my shoulder:
“So how was the date?”
I stepped back.
“You cannot be serious.”
She laughed through tears.
“You went to Marino’s.”
“With our dead father’s secret daughter.”
My sister frowned.
“She isn't his daughter.”
“Try explaining the difference emotionally.”
“Fair.”
Then she smiled in a way I immediately distrusted.
“You like her.”
“No.”
“You fixed her truck for free.”
“I fix everyone's truck.”
“You charged the pastor eighty dollars last month.”
“He abuses clutches.”
My sister smiled wider.
“Do not do this.”
“Do what?”
“Turn the most emotionally catastrophic week of my life into matchmaking.”
“Fine.”
She picked up coffee.
Then:
“She's very pretty.”
“Leave.”
My daughter shouted from the office:
“Dad likes the truck lady!”
I closed my eyes.
My sister nearly died laughing.
Traitors.
Both of them.
For the next month, the stranded woman and I spoke almost every day.
Not dating.
That distinction mattered.
At least to me.
Sometimes she called because she remembered something about my father.
Sometimes I called because a letter mentioned an event I did not understand.
She told me about the years after her mother died.
I told her about my childhood before he left.
We began assembling one man from two separate histories.
The father I remembered had smelled like motor oil and cigarettes.
The father she remembered smelled like coffee and sawdust.
Mine swore when tools slipped.
Hers still swore, apparently.
Good.
At least some continuity existed.
Mine made pancakes shaped like animals.
Hers could not make pancakes without burning them.
That bothered me.
“Impossible.”
“He was terrible.”
“No.”
“He burned water.”
“He made perfect pancakes.”
“Maybe guilt improved him.”
We laughed.
Then sadness returned.
That happened often.
One Saturday she brought the old pickup to my shop.