I had been afraid of this moment.
Not because Stephanie was reading.
Because I didn't know whether my children were ready to hear their father without turning his words into another disagreement.
For the first few minutes, they had been comparing envelopes.
Danny's was thicker.
Stephanie wanted to know why.
Michael wanted to know whether the difference was fair.
I had been trying to get them to open what Walt had left.
Now Stephanie had done it.
The photograph was on the table.
The letter was in her hands.
And her brothers were waiting.
It wasn't much.
But it was the first time since we had sat down that all three were paying attention to the same thing.
I looked at the picture again.
Stephanie at eight.
Walt carrying her on his shoulders.
The county fair behind them.
Her eyes shut from laughing.
I didn't need to see anything else to know how much that photograph meant to me.
She had been so small then.
I had been younger.
Walt had been alive.
That was the part I could never get around.
He had been alive.
He had carried our daughter.
He had been there for a moment that could fit into a photograph.
And now we were sitting at Danny's folding table with only the photograph and the letter.
I pressed my hands together.
I didn't want to cry while Stephanie read.
I wasn't ashamed of crying.
I just didn't want her to feel she had to look after me.
She was about to hear something her father had written for her.
I wanted her to have that moment without worrying about my face.
Stephanie looked at the page.
Then at the photograph.
Then back at the page.
Michael shifted in his chair.
The movement caught my eye.
He was watching his sister.
His own envelope remained unopened.
Danny's was still thick and sealed.
For once, nobody was reaching for it.
Stephanie took a breath.
"Mom, did Dad write all of these himself?"
I looked at her.
"He wrote the letters."
She glanced at the paper again.
"I thought so."
She ran her thumb along the edge.
I recognized the handwriting from where I sat.
It felt strange to see it in someone else's hands.
For years, the sight of Walt's writing had been ordinary to me.
Now there was nothing ordinary about it.
I watched Stephanie study the page.
Her expression was serious.
She no longer seemed interested in comparing the size of her envelope with Danny's.
At least not right then.
That was enough for me.
I couldn't ask more of the moment than it was giving.
Michael glanced toward the picture again.
"That's from the fair?"
Stephanie nodded.
"Yeah."
"How old were you?"
"Eight."
He looked at it for another second.
Then sat back.
It was such a simple exchange.
But it helped.
They were speaking about a memory.
Not a share.
Not a division.
Not who had received the most.
I had wanted that from the beginning.
I could remember kissing each of them goodnight when they were little.
Stephanie.
Michael.
Danny.
Sometimes the evenings had been easy.
Sometimes I had been tired.
Sometimes one child needed more attention than the others.
But they were all mine.
I had loved each of them.
I still did.
Looking at them now, I understood that loving them didn't mean I could make them respond in the same way.
They were different people.
They had different questions.
Different fears.
Different habits.
I had known that for years.
Yet part of me still expected them to become children again whenever we were together.
I expected them to sit around a table and let me explain.
I expected them to trust that I had a reason for what I was doing.
That expectation wasn't fair to them.
They were adults.
Walt was gone.
And whatever happened with the envelopes would belong to them as much as it belonged to me.
I looked at Stephanie's letter.
She had flattened it carefully.
The photograph lay close to her elbow.
Her fingers were resting near the first line.
"Take your time," I said.
She looked up.
"I am."
I nodded.
"All right."
She wasn't angry.
She sounded focused.
I was grateful for that.
Michael reached toward his own envelope, then stopped.
He left it where it was.
Danny looked down at the one in front of him.
He didn't pick it up.
I couldn't tell what either of my sons was thinking.
I could only see what they were doing.
They were waiting for their sister.
I thought about how the evening had begun.
Three envelopes placed in front of three grown children.
One difference noticed almost immediately.
One question that had made everyone quiet.
Then another question about whether the contents should have been equal.
I had felt myself preparing to defend something before anyone had even read it.
I hadn't wanted that.
I had wanted the letters to come first.
And now, at last, they were.
Stephanie lifted the page slightly.
She looked at her father's writing one more time.
Her mouth moved as she read the beginning silently.
Then she turned toward her brothers.
"I'll read the first part."
Michael nodded.
Danny looked at her.
I sat very still.
The envelope lay open beside Stephanie's hand.
The childhood photograph remained on the table.
And the letter was ready to be heard.
She looked down at its opening sentence.
Then she began to speak.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: Stephanie Read Her Father’s First Words Aloud, and I Watched the Daughter I Had Raised Begin to Understand What She Had Refused Me
When My Daughter Saw the Difference Between Three Envelopes, She Asked the Question I Had Been Afraid to Answer
Part 4 of 8
