I knew about the heart attack.
Mary was eight.
She remembered the ambulance.
And her mother's shoes beside the front door.
"After the funeral," her mother said.
"I kept her fed. I got her to school. But I stopped being there."
"What does that mean?"
"She had his eyes. Sometimes she'd smile, and I'd have to leave the room."
I pictured Mary smiling at me across this table.
"Why?"
"Because I missed him so much I couldn't stand it."
Her mother rubbed her thumb over the envelope.
"One night she found me crying over his picture."
Mary climbed onto the sofa beside her.
"Do you wish Daddy was here?"
"More than anything," her mother answered.
Then Mary asked, "More than you want me?"
I waited.
"What did you say?"
Her mother shook her head.
"I didn't answer."
"She was eight."
"I know."
"She thought you didn't want her?"
"For years."
I pushed my chair back.
Mary used to tell me she hated asking people for things.
