“I understand,” I said.
But I didn’t.
Not yet.
In the parking lot, Calvin handed me the folder he had been carrying.
“Copies of the expenses,” he said. “And something else.”
Inside were bank statements, insurance letters and Havenwood invoices.
Beneath them was an old photograph.
Dorothy.
My wife stood beside our kitchen window holding baby Melissa.
On the back was Dorothy’s handwriting.
I knew every curve of it.
My hands began shaking before I even read the words.
CALLED AGAIN TODAY. STILL NO CONFIRMATION. IF THERE IS EVEN A CHANCE, I HAVE TO KEEP LOOKING.
The date was four months after Melissa’s funeral.
I looked at Calvin.
“Where did you get this?”
“In a box Melissa’s social worker received with some old records.”
“From whom?”
“That’s what I was trying to figure out.”
I turned the photograph over again.
Four months after we buried our daughter, Dorothy had written that there was still a chance.
