I cried so hard that Raul had to hand me a clean handkerchief from his work pocket.
It smelled like lemon cleaner.
It always would.
The following Friday, Skylar Rosenthal stood at the front door of Aunt Kaitlyn's townhouse on Thistle Street.
She wasn't wearing makeup.
She was holding a flat brown paper bag.
"I still have it," she said, and her voice cracked. "I found it in a drawer. It was the last one. I never threw it out. I didn't know why."
She held it out.
A small broom was drawn on it, in blue ballpoint, in my father's careful hand.
I took the bag from her.
I held it against my chest.
"I'm not here to ask you to forgive me," Skylar said. "I wanted you to have it."
"Thank you."
"My mother is selling the Birkin and the Cartier," she said. "And my dad sold the Rolex. It's going to a consignment shop in Philadelphia. It's sixty-three thousand dollars."
