“Thinking about them does not make you a parent.”
“I made mistakes.”
“You left three six-month-old babies outside my door.”
“Elowen was gone. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“She was their mother. They lost her too.”
He said nothing.
“You want to be their father, get on a plane,” I told him. “Stand in front of them. Explain why you disappeared.”
“I need time.”
“You have already had twelve years.”
Callan never got on a plane.
The cards stopped after that.
The girls never mentioned them.
Sometimes I wondered whether they had noticed.
Of course they had.
Children always notice the empty spaces adults hope they can hide.
At night, I ran numbers through my head.
Not financial numbers.
The other kind.
Had I attended enough school events?
Had I told them I loved them often enough?
Did they remember the nights I read stories, or only the evenings I fell asleep at the table after work?
Did they see me as their parent?
Or only as the uncle who happened to stay?
Beneath every worry was one fear I never admitted aloud.
Perhaps some part of them was still waiting for their real father.
Perhaps I was the man who had raised them, but not the man they truly wanted.
I could not blame them for that.
I simply could not stop fearing it.
The morning of their college graduation, I sat in my truck for twenty minutes before finding the courage to step outside.
I was forty-nine.
My beard had turned gray in uneven patches.
My right knee still hurt from falling off a ladder two summers earlier.
A cheap camera rested in my lap.
I had purchased it because Maisie said phone photographs did not count as proper graduation pictures.
I did not know how to use half its settings.
Inside my wallet, behind an expired insurance card and an old food receipt, was Callan’s original note.
