Part Nine: Thirty-Nine Years
I read every envelope.
It took me all morning and most of the afternoon. Eli stayed. I told him he didn’t have to. He said he’d called in to work. He said he wasn’t going anywhere.
Around noon, he made me a grilled cheese sandwich in my own kitchen. I ate half of it.
They were all there. Every year. In order.
Daniel is three. He loves trucks. He sleeps with a toy fire engine.
Daniel is five. He started kindergarten. He told his teacher his heart is special because a little girl named Rose gave him part of it.
Daniel is eight. He hit his first home run in Little League. He ran the bases so fast he fell down at third.
When Daniel was twelve, there was a different kind of letter.
Dear Rose’s father,
I need to tell you something, and I hope it doesn’t hurt you. Daniel had surgery again this year. The doctors replaced the valve. They said Rose’s valve was never going to grow with him. They always knew it would need replacing someday.
But they told us something I want you to know. They said if he hadn’t had Rose’s valve as a baby, he never would have lived long enough to get this one. They said she gave him twelve years. Twelve years of birthdays and Little League and learning to read and riding his bike and laughing at cartoons.
She gave him the time to grow big enough to be saved again.
I think that’s what a gift is. Not something that lasts forever. Something that gets you to the next part.
I read that one four times.
Something that gets you to the next part.
Daniel is fifteen. He’s taller than his father. He’s taking biology and says he wants to be a doctor.
Daniel is eighteen. He graduated high school. Valedictorian. In his speech, he thanked a family he’s never met.
Daniel is twenty-two. He graduated from Ohio State. Biology. He’s going to nursing school.
At some point, the handwriting changed.
Starting in 2008, the letters weren’t from Daniel’s mother anymore. They were from Daniel.
Dear Rose’s father,
My mom passed away in February. Breast cancer. She asked me to keep writing to you. She made me promise.
So here I am. I’m twenty-two. I’m in nursing school at Wright State. I want to work with babies who are born with heart problems.
I’ve never met you. But I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.
There were photographs in almost every envelope.
Daniel in a cap and gown. Daniel in scrubs. Daniel standing next to a young woman in a white dress, both of them laughing. Daniel holding a newborn baby girl in a pink hospital blanket.
On the back of that photograph, in his handwriting:
Our daughter. Born April 14, 2016. We named her Rose.
I put my head down on the kitchen table and cried.
Eli came around the table and put his hand on my back. He didn’t say anything. He just left it there, warm and steady, the way Arthur used to.
Part Ten: The Last Envelope
The last envelope was different.
It was newer, bright white, dated April 14 of last year. Just eleven months before Arthur died.
There was no hospital address on it. Instead, there was a real return address. A street in Kettering, Ohio. Twenty minutes from my house.
And underneath it, a name.
Daniel Hartwell.
Dear Arthur,
I’m finally writing with my real name. I hope that’s all right.
