"For this?" I asked.
"For you," Emily said.
I shook my head. "I can't go back there."
"Every dollar we could save."
"You can," Grace said. "But we'll go together."
She pulled the pink towel closer.
"There's more."
I wanted to refuse before the room cracked open wider.
But my daughters were watching me, and I had spent 18 years teaching them not to run from hard things.
So, I opened it.
"We'll go together."
A scrapbook rested inside. On the cover, they had written:
"Our Family Began Before We Could Remember"
The first page showed me asleep with both of them tucked against my chest.
Then came birthdays, missing teeth, school plays, report cards, and Father's Day cards.
Near the back, an envelope slipped out.
Sarah's photo was inside.
A scrapbook rested inside.
"Where did you get this?"
"You dropped your wallet when we were fifteen," Emily said. "I snapped a copy before you grabbed the photo back."
