A rough laugh escaped me. “I deserved it.”
But she shook her head, and her voice dipped lower. Softer. “I also had these other memories of you. Really good ones. And I think some part of me knew you were a good dad.” She paused, swallowing. “Even when the bitterness started to take root, I couldn’t completely kill the part of my heart that remembered you tucking me in at night.”
My throat tightened. “You remember that?”
“I mean, I remember a few times.” She hedged, shrugging. “I was really young. But I also remember visiting you in prison. Those early years, before I wasn’t allowed to come anymore. And I just remember feeling so …” She searched for the word. “Loved. Whenever I saw you.”
I had to look at the ceiling. Had to blink hard.
Get it together.
“Anyway”—her tone shifted, lighter now—“the point is, I kept something through the years. I was building it more for me than anything else, but …” She pushed the bag toward me. “I think it just feels right to give this to you.”
I shifted carefully, ribs protesting, and pulled the glittery tissue paper out. Inside was a large photo album.
Hot pink.
And on the front, in the handwriting of a child who’d clearly taken her time making each letter perfect, were the words:
For My Dad.
“It’s a scrapbook,” she explained. “I know hot pink is probably the worst color in the world to pick, but I was, like, eight when I started it, so …” Another shrug. “Pink was my favorite color back then.”
The scrapbook sat heavy on my lap. Heavier than any weight I’d ever lifted.
“Open it,” she encouraged quietly.
So, I did.
The first page was a picture of an eight-year-old Gwen in a Girl Scout uniform, holding up boxes of cookies like she’d conquered the world. Sun-kissed highlights even then. That wide, gap-toothed grin.
Next to it was a handwritten note. Careful letters. A few backward. The handwriting of a child who was trying so hard.
Dear Dad,
I sold 23 boxes of Girl Scout cookies! That was the second highest in our group!
Love,
Gwen
My vision blurred.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and turned the page.
She looked a few months older in this one. Standing on a dock, a little pink fishing pole in the water, pigtails I remembered so vividly bouncing in the breeze. Her smile was pure joy.
The note beside it read:
Dear Dad,
Today, I learned how to fish! I don’t like touching the worms. Worms are gross. And I feel sorry for them that they die. But the fishing was fun! I caught a fish all by myself! I can’t wait to go fishing with you.
Love,
Gwen
Fucking hell.
