Ethan frowned.
“You have friends.”
“I have excellent friends.”
“That counts.”
“It does.”
I smiled.
“But Mom was right about something.
I don’t ask people to know me.”
Dad looked at me carefully.
“Did I teach you that?”
There was no good answer.
So I gave him the true one.
“Partly.”
He absorbed it without defending himself.
Then I finished the letter.
The last paragraph was shorter.
“One last thing.
There is something in the bottom drawer of my desk that belongs to Claire.
Richard, if you are hearing this, you were supposed to give it to her months ago.
Knowing you, you probably forgot the moment I stopped reminding you.”
Dad suddenly froze.
Madison stared.
“Dad.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“The desk.”
His face drained.
“Oh.”
Ethan groaned.
“Please tell me you did not ignore instructions from Mom after she literally predicted you would ignore them.”
“I didn’t ignore them.”
Dad stood.
“I forgot them.”
“That is impressively worse,” Madison said.
He hurried toward the small study off the hallway.
We followed.
Mom’s writing desk still stood under the window.
Dad opened the bottom drawer.
Old stationery.
Receipts.
A sewing tin.
Two photograph envelopes.
Then his hand stopped.
He withdrew a narrow wooden box.
My name was taped to the top.
CLAIRE.
Dad handed it to me.
“I’m sorry.”
I opened the box.
Inside lay an old brass compass.
I recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to my grandfather, Mom’s father, who served as an Army medic decades before I was born.
He had given me my first book about military history when I was eleven.
He died before I commissioned.
Beneath the compass was another folded note.
This one was much shorter.
I opened it.
Claire,
Your grandfather gave this to me before he died.
He said you should have it when you finally understood that knowing where you are going matters less than knowing why.
I think you understand now.
Love,
Mom
I held the compass in my palm.
The brass was scratched from age.
Dad touched the edge of the desk.
“I didn’t know she kept that.”
