Katherine noticed the cover.
“You kept that?”
I rolled toward the shelf.
“You remember it?”
“I bought it before Greta was born.” Katherine’s voice softened for the first time. “I thought I’d read it to both of them.”
“You remember it?”
I took the book down.
The front cover sagged open.
Inside were pencil lines marking the girls’ heights through the years.
Greta, age four.
Amelia, age three.
Greta, first day of school.
Amelia finally taller than the lamp table.
The front cover sagged open.
Katherine reached toward the page but stopped before touching it.
“What is all that?”
I placed the book on the coffee table.
“Sit down.”
The girls came into the room and settled on the couch.
“What is all that?”
Both chose their old places without discussion. Greta on the left. Amelia tucked into the corner with her feet under her.
Katherine sat in the chair across from them.
I opened the first page.
The printed story was about a little fox searching the forest for the safest place to sleep.
I opened the first page.
Around the words, my handwriting filled the margins.
Greta lost her first tooth tonight. She cried because she thought the Tooth Fairy might be afraid of wheelchairs.
Another page.
Amelia finally slept through the night. Greta woke twice to check whether she was breathing.
Katherine’s fingers pressed into her knees.
“Greta lost her first tooth tonight.”
I turned another page.
First bicycle ride. Greta kept looking back to make sure I could see.
First dance recital. Amelia forgot the steps and bowed anyway.
Science fair.
Snow day.
Stomach flu.
First school dance.
“Amelia forgot the steps and bowed anyway.”
The margins became narrower as the years passed. I had written wherever paper remained, between trees, beneath pictures, along the fox’s tail.
Katherine touched one note.
Greta asked why Mommy left. Told her it was your story to tell one day, Katherine.
Her finger stayed there.
“I didn’t know you wrote these.”
Her finger stayed there.
“I wasn’t writing them for you, Katherine.”
I closed my hand over one wheel.
Then I continued more carefully.
“I started because the days blurred together after the accident. Medicine. Therapy. Work. Bottles. I was afraid I’d forget which parts belonged to which girl.”
“I wasn’t writing them for you, Katherine.”
Katherine turned another page.
Greta’s first fever after you left. Slept beside her bed because she kept calling for someone.
She stopped reading.
“Was she calling for me?”
Greta answered from the couch.
“I don’t remember.”
That hurt Katherine more than yes would have.
“I don’t remember.”
She turned to a later note.
Amelia learned to tie her shoes. Refused help for 40 minutes. Celebrated by asking for pancakes.
A short laugh escaped Amelia.
“I remember that.”
“So do I, sweetheart,” I said.
Katherine kept reading until she reached a blank page near the end.
“I remember that.”
Her hands began to shake against the paper.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with the money.”
I slid the book toward her.
“Tonight, you’re going to read them their bedtime story.”
Greta sat straighter.
I slid the book toward her.
Katherine looked from me to the girls.
“They’re too old for that.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“Because they never heard your voice at bedtime.”
The room made space for the answer.
“They’re too old for that.”
Katherine picked up the book.
At first, her reading sounded careful and formal.
“Little Fox walked beyond the oak tree…”
She cleared her throat and tried again, slower.
The girls did not look at the pictures.
They watched her face.
The girls did not look at the pictures.
Katherine noticed after the third page.
Her eyes moved between them, uncertain now, stripped of the practiced lines she had brought to the door.
Halfway through, she reached a note beside a painted river.
Amelia’s first nightmare. Would not explain it. Held my shirt until morning.
Katherine stopped.
Amelia waited.
Her eyes moved between them.
