The money wasn’t interested. I wanted to know more about Emily.
A few days later, I opened a metal box in which my father had kept photos, letters, birthday cards and drawings made by a little girl I had never known.
The first card was from Emily since she was eight years old.
“Dear Dad, I hope you’re coming to my celebration. I’m going to sing a song and I want you to see me.”
On his back, my father wrote with the pen:
“I didn’t make it. – Sarah was sick. Emily cried.”
I felt like I was burning my eyes.
It wasn’t my fault I was sick. But it hurt to discover that, without knowing it, I was part of the explanations with which my father had justified his absence from the life of the other child.
I then found a photo from graduating from high school graduation. Emily was wearing a robe and a chop, and Rebecca sat next to her. Dad didn’t show up anywhere.
