I didn’t even remember putting it in that box. I certainly didn’t remember where the box had gone.
I’d opened it once, years ago.
“I wasn’t supposed to open it… but I did,” Ainsley revealed. “I found it when I was looking for the Halloween decorations in November. I wasn’t snooping. It was just sitting there.”
“You read it?”
“I read everything in the box, Dad. The letter. The notebook. All of it.”
The notebook was the part that got me. I’d forgotten about it entirely.
“I read everything in the box, Dad.”
I’d kept it at 17, just a cheap spiral-bound thing, full of plans and sketches and the kind of half-formed ideas a kid writes down when he still believes everything is possible. Career timelines. Budget projections. A floor plan I’d drawn for a
house
I was going to build someday.
I hadn’t looked at it in 18 years.
Ainsley had.
“You had all these plans, Dad,” she said. “And then I came along, and you just put them all in a box and you never said a word about it. Not once. You just kept going.”
I tried to speak, but I didn’t even know where to begin.
I hadn’t looked at it in 18 years.
“You always told me I could be anything, Dad. But you never told me what you gave up to make that true.”
The two officers in my living room had gone very quiet, and I’d forgotten entirely that they were there.
Ainsley had started working on the construction site in January. Night shifts on weekends and some weekday evenings, stacking whatever hours she could get around school.
She’d told the crew foreman she was saving up for something specific, and he’d let her stay on informally, partly because she was a hard worker and partly, I suspect, because he was a decent man.
“You never told me what you gave up to make that true.”
