My hair was windblown.
My smile was enormous.
"I remember this day," I said.
"Your father took that photograph."
I touched the edge of the picture.
My father had died five years earlier, before my marriage.
He'd been a quiet man who repaired electrical equipment and believed that every problem could be approached with patience.
Mamá reached into a drawer.
She removed a small envelope.
"He gave me this before he became ill. He said to give it to you when you needed reminding of something."
I stared at her.
"Why didn't you give it to me before?"
"Because I thought you were happy. Then, when things became difficult, I was afraid you would think I was interfering."
Her voice cracked.
"I should have asked more questions."
I reached for her hand.
"Mamá."
She shook her head.
"Read it."
Inside was a letter written in my father's careful handwriting.
My Clara,
