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But what truly captivated me was the photo collage on the wall.
Oh my God.
The collage was all pictures of me. My heart ached as I took in each photograph, seeing myself through the eyes of the woman I loved.
One picture showed me laughing. It was our fourth date. It was the first time Zuri invited me to her place and cooked dinner. I’d found her camera and snapped some pictures of her. She’d got me back by doing the same.
God, I miss you.
Another image was more posed, with me wearing a suit and looking directly into the camera, a half-smile playing on my lips.
When I took you to Rome for the first time. All I wanted to do was spend money on you. Blow your mind. Impress you.
In another image, I stood by a motorcycle, my hair windswept, looking off into the distance.
Zuri had told me I couldn’t ride my motorcycle anymore. She’d lost a friend in an accident with a similar bike. Every time I got on it, she drowned in anxiety.
Therefore, on that day, I gave the bike away, and she took a picture of my saying goodbye.
I walked in closer.
Next to that image was a picture of Zuri and me, our heads close together, smiles bright, a snapshot of a time when happiness seemed effortless.
A few months before Francesca set me up.
I scanned through more photos, in pure disbelief that Zuri had shared all of these with our daughter. To me, they were not just images, they were symbols of love and hope.
And, Zuri had created a narrative of my life for our daughter—a story that spoke of a father who was more than just an absent figure.
Fuck, Zuri. Can you be more perfect?
She kept my memory alive with these images, painting a picture of a father who was out there in the world, somewhere.
Did you tell her where I was, Zuri?
Embarrassment twisted my stomach.
Does she understand?
Near the collage, colorful drawings and handprints were arranged in a playful yet thoughtful display. Among them were more pictures of Zuri and Carmen, their smiles radiating happiness and love.
Now at four, Carmen’s tiny, yet long curls were brushed into pigtails.
My heart ached.
This is my daughter.
And right next to her small pink bed, she had a hand-drawn picture of a family lovingly sketched. There were three figures holding hands—a woman, a child, and a man. The little family stood on the moon. Tiny stars hovered above them.
I leaned in closer.
The man had dark long hair.
My breath caught in my throat.
Under it, she wrote. . .
Mommy, Daddy, and Me.
The thought that my daughter might have been dreaming of me, imagining me in her life, was both uplifting and heartbreaking.
Babygirl, I will never be away from you again.
Scattered around the room were other treasures—a small bookshelf filled with children’s books, a tiny desk with crayons and paper, and a dollhouse that was a miniature replica of a happy home.
As I stood there, surrounded by the innocence and simplicity of a child’s world, I couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of what I had missed.
I have to make up for so much.
Then, a sudden click from the living room froze me in my tracks.
What the fuck?
The sound was sharp and distinct, a jarring contrast to the silence that had enveloped the condo.
What is that?
My instincts screamed at me to hide, to find cover, but my body was frozen, trapped between the fear of discovery and the longing for connection.
Why didn’t Anthony tell me?
Then, I realized I didn’t have a phone on me.
How would he have warned me?
The click was followed by the soft rustle of movement, then the unmistakable chatter of a little child’s voice, filled with excitement and innocence. “And then. . . Mommy. A big teddy bear. Shoes like Tiana, Mommy.”
“Yes, baby.”
I could hear the exhaustion in Zuri’s voice as she responded, doing her best to keep up with her daughter’s endless enthusiasm.
“Pretty shoes, Mommy.”
“That sounds wonderful, sweetheart. I’m sure Santa will do his best.”
Never had I felt so much terror and excitement spinning through me all at once.
I have to see her. Right now. I should hide, but I don’t want to. I’ve been hiding long enough.
“Ding. Ding. Dong.” She sang and clapped. “Ding. Ding.”
“Carmen, I told you not to mess with the bells on the tree.”
“And a cat, Mommy.”
“I told you that we are not ready for a cat right now—”
“A purple cat.”
Zuri chuckled. “How about a purple stuffed cat?”
“No, Mommy. A real one.”
My feet carried me towards the living room, drawn by the magnetic pull of my daughter’s voice.
“Carmen, mommy has too much to do. We do not need to add cleaning a litter box to my list.”
“Kitty kat,” Carmen sang. “Kitty kitty kat.”
I’ll get it for you, baby girl.
Swallowing down fear and even pride, I rounded the corner.
