He did not trust himself to say anything to that, so he didn't.
Daria set the cardboard tray down and slid in beside her daughter and pushed one of the coffees across the table to him.
"You already have one," she said. "Too bad. Drink this one too."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You're still doing it."
"I know."
She was quiet for a while. She had the look of a person who had been awake most of the night and had come out the other side into a kind of exhausted clarity, like the clarity of the desert at dawn, when everything is very far away and very sharp at the same time.
"I read it," she said. "Her note. Around three in the morning. Ludie was asleep and I was sitting in the kitchen at my mom's house with all eleven boxes on the table and I thought, Well, if I don't read it now, I'm going to read it at a worse time." She touched her pocket but did not take anything out. "I'm not going to tell you what it says. Most of it's for me. But there's one part that's kind of about you, and I think she'd want you to know it, so I'm going to tell you that part."
He waited.
"She said, It was always your money, Daria. Do what your father would have done with a paycheck. And then she said, He'd have bought something stupid and then he'd have put the rest away for you. So do that." Daria let out a long breath. "That's it. That's the part."
"What would he have bought?" Ludie asked. "Something stupid like what?"
"I don't know, Lu. I didn't know him."