Her mother looked directly at me.
“She didn’t tell you what happened after her father died.”
I knew he’d suffered a heart attack when Mary was eight. She remembered the ambulance and her mother’s shoes beside the front door.
“After the funeral,” her mother said.
“I kept her fed. I got her to school. But I stopped being there.”
“What does that mean?”
“She had his eyes. Sometimes she’d smile, and I’d have to leave the room.”
I pictured Mary’s smile.
“Why?”
“Because I missed him so much I couldn’t stand it.”
Her thumb moved nervously over the envelope.
“One night she found me crying over his picture.”
Little Mary had climbed beside her on the sofa.
“Do you wish Daddy was here?”
“More than anything,” her mother answered.
Then Mary asked, “More than you want me?”
My chest tightened.
“What did you say?”
