Lily went upstairs around eleven, exhausted but happy.
I stayed in the kitchen washing dishes.
Dad walked in.
The moment I saw his face, I knew something was wrong.
He looked pale.
Not sick.
Afraid.
“Dad?”
He looked at the floor.
My father never looked away from hard things.
That frightened me more than anything.
Then he said,
“I’ve done something terrible to you.”
I put down the plate I was holding.
“What?”
He placed a shoebox on the counter.
It was old.
The tape had yellowed slightly.
My name was written on top.
I recognized the handwriting instantly.
Carl.
My knees almost gave out.
Dad said,
“Carl made me promise I wouldn’t give this to you until Lily turned eighteen.”
I stared at him.
His voice shook.
My father’s voice almost never shook.
Then he said,
“Carl didn’t leave because he stopped loving you.”
I sat down.
