She names her first child Matilda. She doesn't tell him why. He assumes she just likes the name, maybe it's in homage to the little girl Matilda from those children's books. Is it a secret? Is it not? "Secrets cause cancer," he once joked. She laughs. She holds his hand. Their little girl is tucked between them, falling asleep as her parents coo and whisper extra "I love yous," because saying it often is never saying it too much.

Matilda grows up. She has her troubles, as most children do. There are skinned knees, pigtails tugged, hearts broken and mended once again. She goes through a tomboy phase where it's Daddy! all the time and football in the front yard. And then she grows up some more. She still loves Daddy, still loves football, but when she's 19 she bonds with her mom once again, and she gets to be the tomboy who also gets to be a girly-girl, who gets to wear pretty things not because she wants to impress a boy, but because it makes her feel confident about herself. At 20 her mom gifts her a pair of vintage boots. They are navy blue, knee-high, with buttons that start at the ankle and climb up the curve of her calf. They are worn but soft, cared for and loved. Her mom gives her a hug, tells her to check the inside the boot to make sure that they fit. They're Frye boots, and though she's still learning about fashion she knows this means quality, and though the style of the boot has worn away, she checks the hell to see that it's the same size. "Your size, too?" she asks her mom. They hug, and more is passed from one life to another.