I pictured the woman I had been in 1999.

She would have understood an eighty-four-dollar childcare bill better than a four-million-dollar endowment.

In some ways, so did I.

That evening I wrote a letter to Walter, though I knew he could never read it.

I told him I had two daughters who had grown into thoughtful women, each with her own life.

I told him that Lily taught children to love stories, and June sat beside frightened people in hospital rooms at the worst moments of their lives.

I told him that Mrs.