I turned it over.
Three names were written across the back.
“She has a husband,” I whispered. “And two children. She raised other children.”
“Simone…”
“Did Dad know?”
I pushed the photograph toward him. “My mother left to buy milk when I was three. Dad dropped out of college the following week. He worked construction until his body gave out, and you’re telling me he knew she was alive?”
“Your father said the truth had to belong to you.”
“Then I’m taking it home.”
Mr. Lewis followed me to Dad’s apartment because Dad had specifically asked him to remain with me while I emptied the bag.
I did not want the company.
My earliest memories of Dad were his steel-toed boots beside the door, his orange safety vest hanging over a chair, and his rough hands pulling blankets around me at night.
He had been studying engineering when I was born.
Then Mom left for groceries one Tuesday afternoon and never came back.
Dad withdrew from college the following week, borrowed a hard hat, and raised me in the same tiny apartment.
Money was always scarce.
Dad repaired his boots with glue, stretched meals for days, and once divided his only sandwich after I caught him pretending he had already eaten.
Whenever I asked why he worked so hard, he kissed my forehead.
“Because you’re worth every sore muscle, Daddy’s Bug.”
I promised that someday I would buy him a house, take him on vacation, and give him peaceful Sundays.
Then cancer took him eight months after the diagnosis.
At the apartment, I emptied the grocery bag across the kitchen table.
“Don’t explain anything for him,” I said.
Birthday cards scattered over the surface.
I opened one decorated with a cartoon ladybug.
Mom had written, “I hope she has a wonderful fifth birthday. Tell her I think about her.”
There was no “I love you.”
No request to hear my voice.
Every envelope had been mailed to Dad, and every message referred to me as though I were someone else’s child.
“You can stop,” Mr. Lewis said.
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