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I nod. “She used to read it to you when you were tiny.”

Babs wrinkles her nose. “I don’t remember.”

“You were only babies.”

“Oh.” She considers that for about half a heartbeat before reaching toward the cover. “Can I hold it?”

I pass it over, half expecting the excitement to make her grab it, but she surprises me by settling it carefully into both hands as though she instinctively understands it matters.

“It’s pretty.”

Biddy traces one finger across the faded lettering before lifting the book closer to her face. “It smells old.”

“It does,” I say with a smile.

“I like that smell.”

“So did your mom.”

Biddy grins, having just discovered another way they’re alike. As Babs opens the cover, an envelope slides free and drifts onto the kitchen island.

She looks at it, then back at me. “Did Mommy leave us a letter?”

I pick it up before either of them can, turning it over in my hand. Cream-colored paper. No stamp or address. Across the front, written in blue ink, are four words that make my chest tighten.

For Babs and Biddy.

“What’s it say?” Babs asks, already trying to peek over my arm.

“I haven’t looked yet.”

“Well…” She waves both hands impatiently. “Look.”

I unfold the paper.

The handwriting catches me before I read a single word.

Every letter leans the way hers did. Every capital T carries the same tiny hook she’d always written without thinking, and the loops, the spacing, even the little gap she always left inside her lowercase o’s look painfully familiar.

My fingers tighten around the page.

It looks like hers.

“Daddy?” Biddy’s standing beside me now, peering up at my face. “You forgot to read it.”

I blink and realize she’s right. “Sorry.”

I lower my eyes to the page.

“Dear Babs and Biddy, your mommy loved you more than anything in the whole world. She wanted you to grow up surrounded by stories because stories teach us how to be brave, kind, curious, and hopeful.”

I swallow hard before I can continue.

“This was one of her favorites. She read it until the pages became soft. Now it’s your turn. Love, someone your mommy helped.”

When I reach the end, I lower the letter and find Mom watching me from across the island. She sets her coffee mug down and holds out her hand.

“Benny.”