“I don't want to be the reason.”
Amara stared at him.
Tyler began crying.
“I don't want people giving me things if it means somebody else gets hurt.”
Nicole moved toward him.
Then stopped.
“Can I hug you?”
Tyler nodded.
She did.
That small question became part of the family afterward.
Can I?
Not assumed.
Asked.
A year after Colorado, Nicole suggested another trip.
Nobody responded.
She laughed nervously.
“Maybe too soon.”
Grant said:
“Very.”
Tyler asked:
“Where?”
“Wisconsin Dells.”
Amara stared.
“That is the opposite of Colorado.”
“Budget repair.”
Grant smiled.
Nicole continued:
“Three nights.”
“I’m paying.”
“Grant is paying.”
“No trust.”
Amara looked suspicious.
“Why are you telling me all that?”
Nicole stopped.
Good question.
Because she was still trying to prove innocence through transparency.
Amara continued:
“I don't need every receipt.”
“Right.”
Nicole nodded.
“Sorry.”
Tyler looked toward Amara.
“You want to go?”
There it was.
Not an announcement.
A question.
Amara thought.
“Yes.”
They went.
The hotel was loud.
The water park smelled aggressively like chlorine.
Grant complained about the price of mediocre pizza.
Tyler got sick after riding the same water slide six times.
Amara laughed until she cried.
Nobody called the trip healing.
That would have ruined it.
It was simply a family trip.
Paid for by the adults taking it.
When Amara turned sixteen, she finally received Daniel’s letter.
Evelyn had kept it according to his instructions.
Not birthday-specific.
AGE SIXTEEN.
Amara opened it alone.
Daniel’s handwriting looked messier than she remembered because most samples she knew came from old birthday cards written before illness weakened him.
Amara,
If you are reading this, you are sixteen, which is an age I currently cannot imagine without becoming extremely annoyed that I won’t get to meet that version of you.
She stopped.
Then continued.
There are things I can plan.
Money.
School.
Insurance.
Paperwork.
There are things I cannot.
Who your mother loves after me.
Who you become.
Whether you still hate tomatoes.
Whether another child enters your family.
Whether the people around you make mistakes trying to be fair.
Amara froze.
The next lines had nothing prophetic in them.
No magical prediction of Grant or Tyler.
Only a dying father thinking about obvious possibilities.
I hope your mother loves again.
I mean that.
Do not turn her happiness into betrayal of me.
Also do not let anyone use my death to tell you that you owe them gratitude for accepting you.
You are not a debt.
The money I left is not proof that I loved you more than anyone loves another child.
It is simply what I had the ability to leave.
Use it for your life.
Not mine.
Amara cried.
Then reached the paragraph Evelyn had warned Nicole about years earlier.
If there are other children in your home someday, I hope you love them.
I hope they love you.
Money can create ugly comparisons if adults become careless.
You having something does not mean they deserve less love.
Them having less money does not mean you owe them what belongs to you.
Those are different problems.
Please keep them different.
Amara read the paragraph three times.
Then went downstairs.
Nicole was cooking.
Grant was helping Tyler with homework.
Amara placed the letter on the kitchen island.
Nicole saw Daniel’s handwriting.
Her face changed.
“Today?”
Amara nodded.
Nicole wiped her hands.
“Can I read it?”