For a second, the whole car disappeared.
I knew that handwriting the way some people know songs.
Tall letters.
Hard slant.
A little loop on the V.
“I should have given this to you when you turned eighteen,” she said.
My hand shook as I took it.
“What is it?”
“Your father wrote letters,” she said. “For milestones. Eighteen. Graduation. Wedding, if you wanted one. First hard day after he was gone.”
My breath caught.
“You had these?”
She looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
Money was one kind of theft.
This was another.
“Why?” I whispered.
Her eyes filled again.
“Because they made me feel left behind,” she said. “He had words for you girls. Plans. Love saved up. And I was angry that he still got to be the good parent after dying.”
I stared at her.
That sentence was ugly.
It was also honest.
