“Where did you get this?”
My hands began shaking.
“She left it with Sebastian before the accident.”
I couldn’t speak.
Gianna gently pushed the envelope toward me.
I carefully opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter.
I couldn’t speak.
“Dad,
“I know you think I’m always complaining about how much you work, but I hope you know how proud I am of you.”
I stopped.
Tears blurred the words.
I wiped my eyes and continued.
“You taught me that saving someone’s life doesn’t always happen in an operating room.”
Tears blurred the words.
“Sometimes, it means listening to someone scared. Sometimes, it means helping them find a place to sleep or reminding them that tomorrow might be better.”
At the bottom, Emily had written:
“One day, when you finally retire, maybe you can come help at the center. I think you’d be pretty good at it.
