“Sometimes I miss somebody I don’t remember.”
“At least you never knew him.”
That hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Because somewhere along the way, I’d made her believe wanting her father at all might insult everything I’d done.
So I asked the question I should have asked years ago.
“What do you miss?”
She wiped her nose.
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
That hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“Stupid stuff.”
“Like?”
She thought for a long time.
Then she said, “Knowing if I laugh like him.”
I almost smiled. “You do.”
Maddie’s eyes went wide. “I do?”
“Especially when you’re trying not to laugh.”
She gave a small, disbelieving laugh.
“Knowing if I laugh like him.”
There it was.
I heard it immediately.
And suddenly I couldn’t believe I’d spent 16 years thinking protecting her meant never opening that door.
“He should not have left,” I told her. “You can wonder about him without making what he did okay.”
