They were dry and cracked from washing, with a small ink stain near my thumb.
“I waited for you,” I said quietly.
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think you do. I waited at every ceremony. Every exam. Every hard day. I kept thinking, maybe if this achievement is big enough, he’ll come back. Maybe if I become impressive enough, he’ll remember I’m his daughter.”
Tears slipped down his face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
This time, the apology did not sound like a strategy.
It sounded like grief.
“I don’t know what to do with that yet,” I said.
He nodded, wiping his face. “You don’t have to do anything.”
That was the first gift he had ever given me without asking for gratitude.
Before he left, he placed something on the table.
A small velvet box.
My heart stopped.
“My mother’s locket,” he said. “Your mom wore it on our wedding day. Diane had it in the safe. I should have given it to you years ago.”
I opened the box with trembling fingers.
Inside was a gold locket shaped like a tiny oval. My mother’s initials were engraved on the back.
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