"Oh, baby."
Sophia began crying again.
"I like talking about Mommy."
The older woman held her.
"So do I."
My daughter looked up.
"But Patricia says it makes Daddy upset."
I closed my eyes.
The room seemed to tilt.
I had spent years avoiding certain conversations because they hurt.
Patricia had turned that avoidance into a rule.
And Sophia had been living under it.
That night, after Sophia fell asleep in her grandmother's guest room, I sat at the dining table with the brown box open in front of me.
I read every letter.
Some were heartbreaking.
Others were ordinary.
And the ordinary ones hurt just as much.
There was a note asking whether I could help with a school science project.
Another asked if we could go to the aquarium again because Sophia remembered visiting when she was little.
One contained a drawing of the two of us standing beside a birthday cake.
Another asked why I didn't call her on business trips anymore.
I looked at the dates.
Many of the letters had been written during trips when I'd specifically asked Patricia whether Sophia wanted to speak.
I remembered being told that she was busy.
Or asleep.
Or upset with me for working too much.
I had accepted those explanations.
Now I was holding evidence that my daughter had been trying to reach me all along.
One letter was written on yellow paper.
Dear Daddy, I waited for you to call on Thursday. Patricia said you were too busy. It's okay. I know your job is important. I just wanted to tell you I got a good grade on my spelling test.
I stared at the words.
I remembered that Thursday.
I'd been in a hotel room in Charlotte, finishing a report before dinner. I called home around seven, and Patricia told me Sophia was watching a movie and didn't want to be disturbed.
I had smiled.
I'd said to tell her I loved her.
Then I'd returned to work.
My hands began shaking.
I looked at another letter.
Daddy, I miss when you used to make pancakes on Saturdays.
Another.
I know Patricia says big girls don't need bedtime stories, but sometimes I still want one.
Then another.
Please don't be mad. I accidentally broke a plate. Patricia says you would be disappointed.
I closed my eyes.
My daughter had spent months trying to communicate with me through letters because she'd been convinced I didn't have time to listen in person.
And the person I trusted to care for her had kept those letters hidden.