Inside was an old photograph I carried everywhere.
Anne in our backyard holding baby Emily.
Same picture.
Emily picked it up.
Her fingertips shook.
“I asked for this.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“David told me.”
“What did he tell you?”
I hesitated.
“That you didn’t want anything that reminded you of Anne.”
Emily’s face drained of color.
She turned away from me.
For several seconds, she simply stood there gripping the photograph.
Then she whispered:
“They lied to both of us.”
I didn’t answer.
Because saying yes would make it real.
Emily looked toward the door.
“Mom said you wanted distance.”
“She told me you wanted distance.”
“She said you didn’t like my husband.”
“I met him twice before today.”
“She said you refused to come to our engagement party.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
Her breath caught.
Suddenly, she looked frightened.
Not angry.
Frightened.
“Grandpa…”
It was the first time she had called me that in years.
My eyes burned.
She saw it.
Her own tears spilled over.
“Oh, God.”
I opened my arms.
This time she came to me.
She collided with my chest so hard I stumbled backward.
I held her.
For one long minute, neither of us spoke.
I smelled the same vanilla shampoo she had used as a teenager.
My granddaughter was twenty-seven years old.
But with her face against my shoulder, she was a little girl again.
And I realized exactly how much had been stolen from us.
Not money.
Not gifts.
Time.
Birthdays.
Holidays.
Ordinary Sundays.
The kind of things no apology can return.
Emily pulled away suddenly.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom doesn’t just do things for no reason.”
“No.”
“And Dad knew.”
I said nothing.
She wiped her cheeks.
Then her eyes moved toward the music box.
“What’s inside?”
I followed her gaze.
“A letter.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“From Grandma?”
“Yes.”
She took a breath.
“Can I have it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“That’s what she asked.”
Emily looked at the handwriting on the envelope.
Then she gave a tiny nod.
“Okay.”
She started toward the door.
Halfway there, she stopped.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“There was something weird this morning.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Mom couldn’t find one of her earrings, so I helped search her suitcase.”
She stared at me.
“Under her clothes was an old leather folder.”
I waited.
Emily swallowed.
“I recognized your handwriting on something sticking out.”
The room suddenly felt very still.
“What was it?”
“A birthday envelope.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“From which year?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to look.”
“Why not?”
“Mom came back.”
Emily hesitated, then added, “But there wasn’t just one envelope.”
A chill ran across my arms.
“How many?”
Her eyes locked on mine.
“Grandpa…”
Her voice fell to almost nothing.
“A mappa tele volt velük.”
Nem tudtam beszélni.
“Karácsonyi képeslapot. Születésnapi képeslapot. Levelek. Nekem címzett dolgok. Apának címezett dolgok.”
A kilincs felé nyúlt.
“És egy boríték nem volt a te kézírásodban.”
Elhúztam a homlokmat.
“Kié volt?”
Emily arca összeszorult.
“Csak a keresztnevet láttam.”
“Milyen név?”
Visszanézett a zenélő dobozra.
Aztán Anne kézírásával.
És amit mondott, az minden szőrszálam felállt a karomon.
“Nagymamáé.”
