She gently folded the paper.
“I know.”
“Twenty-two years, Theresa. He never said he appreciated what I did.”
She rested her head against mine.
“He loved you. He just didn’t know how to say it.”
I stared at the letter.
Then I made a decision.
I climbed into the cab.
Placed Dad’s notebook beside me.
Set the letter on the dashboard near his gloves.
And started the truck.
Eleven miles later, I turned into the farm driveway.
Phil was standing outside the workshop.
He watched the old truck approach.
When I stopped, I leaned across the bench seat and opened the passenger door.
“Get in.”
Phil frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just get in.”
He climbed into the truck.
He had to move Dad’s old cap before sitting down.
He held it awkwardly in his hands.
I gave him the letter.
“Found this beneath the seat.”
He put on his glasses.
