I accepted the envelope.
It felt unexpectedly heavy.
“She asked about you,” Mike continued.
“What about me?”
“First, she wanted your full name. I told her I couldn’t give out employees’ personal information.”
He paused.
“Then she asked whether your father’s name was Tom.”
My heart seemed to stop.
“What?”
“She asked if your dad had driven a truck.”
I gripped the envelope.
Mike’s expression softened.
“I told her yes. Then she started crying.”
He took his glasses off his forehead.
“She asked whether your mother’s name was June.”
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.
“She knew my mother?”
“I don’t know, Rachel. But she was very emotional. She wrote that letter and made me promise you’d receive it first thing this morning.”
My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope.
Inside was a small plastic bag containing coins and several folded bills.
A little note was attached.
**$8.42. I promised I’d repay you.**
There was also a handwritten letter.
Two pages, covered front and back in blue ink.
But beneath the letter was something wrapped carefully in a clean white baby washcloth.
Something heavy.
I lifted it out.
Unfolded the cloth.
And forgot how to breathe.
Inside was a silver wristwatch.
Dark face.
Cracked brown leather strap.
A tiny scratch across the number four.
