Then my girls, or rather young women, walked back onto the stage together, hand in hand, the way they used to cross parking lots when they were five. Something tightened in my chest, but I couldn’t say why. June took the microphone. “Our father couldn’t be here today,” she said. My stomach dropped through the floor of that auditorium. Daniel. They were going to talk about Daniel.
Twenty-two years of birthday cards he never sent, phone calls he never made, and now, on the one day I’d actually shown up for, they were going to honor the man who didn’t. I felt the hurt rise in my throat as if it had been waiting for me. I told myself to sit still, smile, and let them have this if they needed it. Ava reached into the sleeve of her gown and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Claire pressed her hand over her mouth, and I saw her shoulders shake.
“We found the notebook,” June said. “The one in the kitchen drawer.” I closed my eyes and gripped the camera so hard that I heard the plastic creak. I thought about the gas receipt note, still folded in my wallet. I thought about Patricia, and every birthday I’d sat at that warped kitchen table with a pen, writing to three girls who were already asleep. At the time, I told myself they’d read it someday or they wouldn’t, and either way I’d said what needed saying. Then June started reading.
