Me.
Her.
The woman.
Beside us, an old blue pickup.
I stared.
“What’s this?”
“Family.”
My chest tightened.
“Sweetheart.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“You know she's not—”
I stopped.
Not what?
Not her mother.
Obviously.
Children do not always mean what adults fear they mean.
My daughter rolled her eyes.
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Families can have extra people.”
Simple.
Eight-year-old theology.
I sat beside her.
“You okay with Dad dating?”
She shrugged.
“You're less grumpy.”
I laughed.
“That's all?”
“And she makes cinnamon rolls.”
Again.
Easily bought.
Then my daughter became serious.
“Does liking her mean you don't love Mom?”
There it was.
The question I had been avoiding for four years, now sitting in front of me wearing a unicorn T-shirt.
“No.”
“How?”
I thought.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love Auntie?”
“Yes.”
“Does one make the other smaller?”
She frowned.
“No.”
“Love isn't one bucket.”
I pointed toward her drawing.
“You don't have to pour some out before adding more.”
She considered.
Then:
“That's not how buckets work.”
I laughed.
“Metaphor.”
“Oh.”
She returned to drawing.
“Then okay.”
That night I told the woman.
She cried.
Then apologized for crying.
I told her that was unnecessary.
She cried more.
We were not particularly efficient people emotionally.
The final secret arrived in October.
Almost one year after my father died.
The truck began making a tapping noise.
The woman brought it to the shop.
I listened.
“Exhaust manifold.”
“Expensive?”
“Annoying.”
“Different?”
“Yes.”
While removing the inner fender liner, I discovered a welded metal tube hidden inside the frame rail.
Not structural.
Storage.
My father’s work.
Of course.
I opened it.
Inside was a rolled photograph and one final note.
The photograph showed my father standing beside my mother.
Young.
Before my sister was born.
My mother was pregnant with me.
Both smiling.
I had never seen it.
The note was addressed to both of us.
Not me and my sister.
Me and the woman.
That was strange enough to make us sit before reading.
If both of you are reading this, then either my truck has finally fallen apart or somebody is too curious for his own good.
I laughed.
She looked at me.
“He knew you.”
“Apparently.”
I continued.
There is something I did not put in the other letters because I did not know whether it would ever matter.
My smile disappeared.