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.