Amanda shifted uncomfortably.
“I was eight. I didn’t know.”
“Exactly,” Dad replied. “You didn’t know. Just like Lily didn’t know yesterday.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Amanda shrugged.
“And Mom forgave me. That’s what parents do.”
“She did forgive you,” Dad said. “But you’re forgetting something.”
He opened the box.
Inside were a few old photographs, a delicate chain, and a folded piece of paper yellowed with age.
Dad carefully unfolded the note.
“I found this inside after your mother passed away. She kept it all those years.”
Amanda’s expression changed.
“What note?”
Dad handed it to her.
She read silently.
I watched her fingers tighten around the paper.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Amanda didn’t answer, so Dad recited the words from memory.
“I know you wanted to make something beautiful. Next time, ask first. Love means taking care of what matters to someone else.”
I looked at my sister.
