Chapter 24: Ten Empty Envelopes

Mija, if you're reading this, it means I'm not around to say it myself.

I read the rest aloud to Emiliano while the lamp burned.

I'm not good at letters. I fix tires. So I'll say it plain.

The shop is sold, and the house.

Everything is in a trust at the bank.

The lawyer says it will pay you every month until you're thirty-five.

I did it that way so you'd never have to ask a man for money.

Spend it on yourself first. A coat that fits, a good pair of shoes, a dentist.

Don't lend it to anyone who says it's for family. Family is whoever feeds you.

I was proud of you every day. I should have said it more than I did.

Papa.

I folded the page along its creases and held it against my chest.

Emiliano did not say a word.

He moved behind me on the bed and put his arms around me.

I cried for my father, who never met his granddaughter.

Five more letters sat in the hatbox, one for each birthday he had counted.

I read one a week for the rest of the winter.

Camila turned one on a Saturday in March, in my own backyard.

It was a small yard with a crooked fence.

My neighbor had made forty tamales and refused every offer of help.

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