Even during her illness, Emma worried about me.
“Mom, who’s going to make sure you eat properly when I’m gone?”
“Stop talking like that,” I’d tell her.
She’d smile sadly.
Emma worried about me.
***
During my daughter’s final weeks, I barely left her side.
Then, late one night, she opened her eyes and whispered, “Mom, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
She pointed toward the bottom drawer beside her bed.
Inside was a small wooden box wrapped in an old scarf.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“There’s an address under it,” Emma said. “Please take this there after I’m gone.”
I unfolded the paper.
Arthur.
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is he?”
My daughter looked away.
“Please take this there after I’m gone.”
“Just promise me you’ll give it to him. Don’t open it.”
