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“She’s dying to see you,” he whispered. “She cried when I showed her the pictures of Sia. She’s so happy to be an auntie.”
An aunt.
My daughter had an aunt.
Who wanted to meet her.
I looked away. I couldn’t afford to talk about that right now.
Dipping my head to the box of pictures and newspaper clippings, I said, “Open it.”
He lifted the lid and froze as he stared down into the contents. His hand shook as he reached inside before stilling. “May I?”
I waved a hand. “Have at it.”
Each picture, every article, he handled reverently. Some he regarded with pride, others with a smile.
All with sorrow.
I waited.
And watched.
Surprised to see emotions with which I’d recently become familiar drift across his face.
When he reached the pictures at the bottom, the ones my mother sent to her parents, he stopped and dropped his chin to his chest. A sharp intake of breath. A fractured sob.
“We were so happy. I loved her so much. I love her still. I love her always.
“And, I know I haven’t shown it, but I love you. I’m so sorry, son. I should have found a way out.”
I fought the urge to run from the shattered man in front of me. From the damaged man inside me. Because I owed Sia a better father. I owed Hope a better man. And I owed myself. I pushed through for the healing I prayed awaited me on the other side. “Why didn’t you ever send me?”
He swallowed, the candid shot of him and my mother at their wedding trembling in his hand. “You were my only connection to her. I had no choice but to let her go. I couldn’t let you go.”
“I need to…. process.”
My dad smiled through his tears. “Yes. You were always like that.”
The boxes of pictures and clippings softened the sharp rebuke I normally would have delivered.
“In a few weeks, if you like, we can set up a time for you to visit Sia again.”
My father drew in a shuddering breath. “I would love that more than anything. Viola would also love to come…”
He petered off at my sharp look and backed off. “One thing at a time.”
Because my stepmother banned me from the house, I didn’t see or speak to Viola after that night. I thought about getting in touch with her after she turned 18 but decided against it.
Selfishly, I wanted to cut all ties to my stepmother.
And I allowed Viola to become a casualty of that.
I didn’t abandon her when she was six. But not going back amounted to the same thing.
He nodded jerkily, staring at the floor, reluctantly placing the wedding photo down on the table.
I’d never seen photos from their wedding. Even in the pile of photos he brought me after my stepmother scorched the house of her memory, there were no wedding photos.
