Halfway through lunch, Daniel slid an envelope across the table.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside was a check.
Ten thousand dollars.
I looked at him.
“This is more than the monthly payment.”
“We had a good quarter.”
“You need reserves.”
“We have reserves.”
“Your business loan?”
“Down to thirty-eight.”
I was impressed.
“That’s excellent.”
He smiled.
“I wanted to pay extra on yours.”
I looked at the check.
Then at him.
“Why?”
“To finish what we owe.”
“No rush.”
“I know.”
That was the answer I wanted.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Responsibility.
I placed the check in my handbag.
“Thank you.”
He lifted his glass.
“You’re welcome.”
Then he hesitated.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I found something when we cleaned the garage.”
He pulled out his phone.
On the screen was a photograph.
An old cardboard box.
Across the side, in Arthur’s handwriting:
MAGGIE — THINGS SHE WILL INSIST ARE IMPORTANT.
I laughed so suddenly that people turned toward us.
“What was inside?”
“Receipts.”
“Of course.”
“From 1989.”
“Your father had no respect for historical records.”
“There was something else.”
Daniel swiped to another photograph.
It showed a folded piece of notebook paper.
“What is that?”
“I brought the original.”
