I GAVE BIRTH ON A PLANE AT 35,000 FEET, AND A STRANGER HELPED DELIVER MY BABY — BUT AS WE PREPARED TO LAND, THE CAPTAIN ANNOUNCED, “THERE’S SOMETHING IMPORTANT THE MOTHER NEEDS TO KNOW BEFORE WE OPEN THE DOORS.”

Then he looked at my father.

Gene Whitacre and Joaquin Salas stared at each other across thirty-one years.

“Mr. Whitacre,” Joaquin said hoarsely.

“Gene,” my father said. “Just Gene.”

“I’m so sorry,” Joaquin said, and his voice broke right down the middle. “I’m so sorry about Anna. I have thought about her every day for thirty-one years. I’ve driven past that stretch of highway five thousand times. I quit because I couldn’t stand the thought of another mother in the back of my rig and nothing I could do.” He pressed his hand over his eyes. “When your daughter told me her name on that plane, I thought I was going to be sick. And then all I could think was, not this time. Not this one.”

My father held out the yellowed envelope.

“I wrote you this thirty-one years ago,” he said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to deliver it.”