Then she whispered, "She said, 'You'll never find out.'"
I stared at her.
I thought about the letters.
The laundry.
The missed lunches.
The way Sophia seemed afraid of hearing Patricia's car in the driveway.
And suddenly, I knew the problem was much larger than chores.
I stood.
"Come with me, sweetheart."
Sophia looked toward the staircase.
"Where?"
I took her hand.
"Upstairs."
Patricia and I shared the large bedroom at the end of the upstairs hallway.
It had cream-colored walls, dark wood furniture, and a walk-in closet big enough to hold more clothes than I owned. Patricia kept everything meticulously arranged, from her shoes to her handbags to the storage boxes on the upper shelves.
Sophia stopped outside the bedroom.
Her grip tightened around my fingers.
"Daddy?"
I turned.
"What is it?"
She looked at the closed door.
"Are you going to be mad?"
I took a breath.
"I'm upset about what I've learned. But I'm not upset with you."
She nodded uncertainly.
I opened the bedroom door.
Everything looked ordinary.
The bed was neatly made.
A vase of flowers stood on the dresser.
Patricia's jewelry box sat beside a framed photograph from our wedding.
There was no obvious brown box.
No pile of letters.
Nothing out of place.
For a moment, I wondered whether Sophia had misunderstood what she'd seen.
Then my daughter pointed.
"The closet."
I looked toward the partially closed door near the bathroom.
Sophia whispered, "She took it in there."
I approached slowly.
Then I opened it.
The closet lights came on automatically, illuminating rows of Patricia's expensive clothing and neatly arranged shelves. Shoes stood in perfect lines beneath hanging dresses, and several designer handbags rested inside protective covers.
At first, I saw nothing unusual.
Then I noticed a brown cardboard box pushed behind a stack of shoe containers on the upper shelf.
My pulse quickened.
I reached up and pulled it down.
It was heavier than I expected.
There was tape along the top.
Not new tape.
The edges had been peeled back and pressed down again several times.
I placed the box on the floor.
Sophia stood behind me.
I looked toward her.
"Is this the one?"
She nodded.
I carefully opened the flaps.
And what I found inside changed everything.
There were dozens of envelopes.
Small ones.
Large ones.
Some folded from notebook paper.
Some made from colored construction paper.
Almost every envelope had the same word written across the front in a child's handwriting.
DAD.
I stared.
Then I lifted the first envelope.
It was pink.