Beside them were several shirts with worn collars.
He looked toward the shoes beneath the bed.
One pair of cracked sandals.
One pair of winter boots that were too small.
And the damaged sneakers.
The left shoe lay open.
The insole lifted.
The empty space beneath it seemed unbearably small.
He knelt.
Picked up the shoe.
Then sat slowly on the edge of the bed.
For several minutes, he could not move.
He thought about the cars in his garage.
The watches he owned.
The business contracts.
The vacation properties.
The expensive birthday cake downstairs.
And the little girl who had walked around for eleven days with her mother's letter hidden beneath her heel because she was afraid it would be taken from her.
He began crying.
His daughter appeared in the doorway.
She stopped.
“Daddy?”
He looked up.
His face was wet.
The girl stared.
For a moment, she seemed frightened.
Then she stepped closer.
“Are you mad?”
He shook his head.
“No, sweetheart.”
She looked toward the shoe.
“Did I do something wrong?”
The father closed his eyes.
The question hurt every time she asked it.
He opened them.
“No.”
He placed the shoe beside him.
“You protected something important.”
The girl hesitated.
Then whispered, “Mommy wrote it.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
She looked down.
“I didn't want to lose it.”
The father reached toward her.
Then stopped.
“May I hug you?”
She nodded.
He drew her close.
For several moments, they remained together.
Then the girl whispered something into his shirt.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Can I sleep in my old room tonight?”
The father felt his chest tighten.
He looked toward the ceiling.
Then down at his daughter.
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened.
“Really?”
He nodded.
“Really.”
She swallowed.
“But what about the pink room?”
He smiled sadly.
“We'll figure that out. Tonight, you can sleep somewhere you feel safe.”
The child considered.
Then looked toward the hallway.
“Can we keep Mommy's butterflies?”
The father froze.
The butterflies.
The little drawing her mother made.
The one that used to hang beside the bed.
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“Can we find it?”
He nodded.
“We'll look together.”
And for the first time in two years, the father did something he should have done long before.
He put his phone away.
Sat beside his daughter.
And began listening to the memories she had been carrying alone.
They found the butterfly drawing at eleven that night.
It was inside a cardboard box at the back of the upstairs storage closet, wrapped in a faded bedsheet beneath several framed photographs and a collection of old children's books.
The father carried the box into the hallway.
His daughter sat beside him on the floor.
Together, they began removing the contents.
A wooden picture frame.
A small stuffed rabbit.
A yellow cardigan.
Several birthday cards.
A little glass jar filled with colorful buttons.
And finally, the drawing.
Two butterflies.
One blue.
One yellow.
Their wings overlapped slightly, as though they were flying together.