Once, a package arrived containing three stuffed bears and no note.
The girls were seven.
They played with the bears for a week.
Then Brooke asked,
“Who sent them?”
I could have lied.
Instead, I said,
“Your biological father.”
All three became quiet.
“Does he know where we live?” Lily asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why doesn’t he come here?”
There are questions children ask that have no answer capable of protecting them.
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
When the girls were thirteen, Eric finally called me.
I almost hung up when I heard his voice.
“Mason.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been thinking about the girls.”
“Congratulations.”
“Come on.”
“No. You don’t get ‘come on.’ You disappeared.”
“I wasn’t okay after Melissa died.”
“You think I was?”
Silence.
Then Eric said,
“I want to reconnect.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
“Reconnect?”
“They’re my daughters.”
