"I'm going to put a picture of me wearing them in it. Can you take one tomorrow? In all three? Like, a row?"
"Sure."
"Mom," Sadie said. "Can I call him and say thank you? Like, tonight?"
"Not tonight, baby," my mother said, to the pot. "He's—it's Friday night, he's probably out. Write the card. A card's better. He can keep a card."
"Okay." Sadie bent back over the paper. Her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her mouth the way it did when she concentrated. She wrote, inside, in pencil first so she could erase: Dear Daddy, Thank you SO MUCH for the shoes. They are so warm and pretty and I love them. I am so grateful. I will wear the black ones for my solo. I wish you could come. Love, Sadie. Then she drew a heart and colored it in, red, pressing so hard the marker squeaked.
My mother turned off the water. She dried her hands on the dish towel for a long time, longer than you need to dry your hands. Then she went into her bedroom and closed the door, and after a minute I heard the bathroom fan come on in there, the little one in her half-bath, and it ran for a long time.
I helped Sadie get ready for bed. She lined up her shoes again at the foot of the bunk and set the card on top of the black boots, standing up, like a tiny tent. When I got up into the top bunk and turned off the lamp, she said, "Noemi?"
"What."
"Do you want to borrow my old sneakers? The purple ones? They're in the closet."
Sadie's old purple sneakers were a size two. I wore an eight. I could have fit maybe three of my toes in them.
"They won't fit, Sade," I said. "But thanks."