Amanda looked furious.
“Dad, I told you to put that away.”
“Not until we talk.”
I approached the table.
“What’s going on?”
Dad picked up the photograph and handed it to me.
A little girl stood beside him, proudly holding the decorated box.
“That’s Amanda,” he said. “On my birthday, when she was eight.”
I glanced at my sister.
“What does this have to do with my car?”
“More than you think.”
Amanda folded her arms.
“Seriously, Dad? You’re bringing up something from 26 years ago?”
Dad ignored her.
“Your sister wanted to surprise me with a birthday present. She found this jewelry box in our bedroom and decided it needed decorating.”
“That’s sweet,” I said cautiously.
“It would have been, except the box belonged to your mother. Her own mother had given it to her.”
I looked closer at the faded flowers.
“These were permanent markers?”
Dad nodded.
“Your mother cried when she saw it.”
