My 8-year-old daughter sat silently through the will reading, waiting for her envelope just like the other grandchildren.

Emily had been ours since she was sixteen months old. Robert had held her the day we brought her home and cried into her hair. He had taught her how to plant tomatoes, bait a fishing hook, and say “portfolio” like it was a magic word.

He called her his little compass.

Patricia, however, had always called her “your girl.”

I stood carefully and wrapped my coat around Emily’s shoulders.

“We’re leaving.”