Chapter 6
Sophie's cardigan still had the same stain on the front when I got her home. I hadn't noticed it in the ballroom under those chandeliers. In my apartment's kitchen light it was obvious, a faint orange ring just below the second button, like she'd wiped her hands after eating crackers.
She sat at our little table and didn't take it off. She kept her hands tucked into the sleeves.
"You want to change?" I asked.
She shook her head. Her pigtails had loosened and one was half out. I could hear her breathing, small and fast.
I knelt so we were eye level. "You okay to be home?"
She nodded, then whispered, "Is grandma mad?"
I didn't know how to answer that. I smoothed her hair back. "Grandma went home. We're home now."
Roman had stayed downstairs. He'd walked us to my car in the parking lot outside the ballroom and said he wouldn't come up unless I asked him to. I told him to give us twenty minutes. My phone buzzed once in my pocket with his name on it, but I didn't check it yet.
I took Sophie into her bedroom to change her for bed. Her closet was a mess I'd been meaning to fix, the sliding door stuck halfway. When I tried to push it open for her pajamas, a canvas tote bag fell over inside. It wasn't ours. It was Helena's, cream colored with her foundation's initials stitched on it, the one she used when she kept Sophie overnight.
"Mommy left that last time," Sophie said. "Grandma said not to open it."
The bag was unzipped. Inside were folded clothes I recognized, but underneath there was a stack of envelopes held together with a rubber band. Ten or twelve of them, all the same size, all addressed in the same handwriting.
To Sophie Henderson. Our old address on Maple, the apartment we had before Helena insisted we move closer to her.
Each one had a bright yellow sticker on it. RETURN TO SENDER. UNABLE TO FORWARD. And under that, in Helena's neat cursive with a blue pen, "No longer at this address — please do not resend."
My hands started to shake before I even pulled the rubber band off.
The top envelope was a birthday card. On the front, a cartoon dinosaur. Inside, Roman's handwriting. Happy 5th Birthday, baby girl. I miss you every day. Love, Daddy. There was a twenty-dollar bill taped inside that had yellowed.
The next one was a Christmas card. Then another birthday. Then a plain white envelope with just a letter. Sophie, I sent mommy a letter too, I hope you got the other ones. I think about you when I — The sentence stopped like he'd run out of room.
Every one had a postmark. Every one was within the last three years. Every one had been opened, then put back and marked up.
Sophie was standing next to me, still in her cardigan. She watched me flip through them.
"Those are from daddy?" she asked.
I swallowed. "Yeah. Did you ever see these before?"
She shook her head. "Grandma said the mailman couldn't find us."
I sat on the floor so I wouldn't tower over her. The envelopes were spread around my knees.
"Sophie, what did grandma tell you about daddy?" I kept my voice low.
She picked at a loose thread on her cardigan pocket. Then she said it the way a kid repeats a line she's heard a hundred times, soft and rehearsed.
"She said daddy was dead and his money stopped, so we don't have to be sad anymore. She said it when I cried."
She said it like it was supposed to be comforting. Like Helena had told her that was the reason not to wait by the window anymore.
"How many times did she say that?" I asked.
She shrugged. "When I asked. She said dead people don't send letters."
Something cold settled in my chest. I looked at the stickers again, Helena's handwriting over the post office's. She hadn't forgotten to forward them. She'd kept them in her tote, in Sophie's closet, hidden where I did laundry and never looked.
Sophie reached into her cardigan pocket then, both hands at once, and pulled out a folded piece of pink paper that had been pressed flat.
"This was in my pocket at grandma's," she said. "I saved it."
It was the back of a grocery receipt. On the blank side Helena had written in blue pen, Sophie — Daddy — DEAD — Do not ask — H.
Not even a full sentence. Just words for a seven-year-old to find.
My breathing caught. I folded it carefully and put it with the envelopes.
Downstairs, my phone buzzed again. I finally looked. A text from Roman: I'm still here. No rush. Is she okay?
I typed back with one hand while the other stayed on Sophie's back. She found your cards. In her closet. Helena marked them return to sender.
Three dots appeared instantly, then disappeared, then appeared again. Then: I sent one every month. For three years. I thought you moved and didn't want me to know.
Sophie leaned against my shoulder. She was finally starting to look tired.
"Can we keep them?" she whispered, looking at the dinosaur card.
May you like
I gathered all the envelopes and held them against me. "Yeah," I said. "We're keeping everything."
I didn't take them to Helena. Not yet. I stacked them and put them on my dresser where Sophie could see them, and I closed the closet door on Helena's empty tote bag.
