“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” he answered. “It doesn’t.”
He made no attempt to soften what had happened.
I continued searching through the bag.
At the bottom lay a wall calendar rolled tightly into a tube.
Several dates had been marked with red circles.
They matched the postmarks on Mom’s cards and the dates printed on the checks.
Beside my fifth birthday, Dad had written four words.
I ran my finger over the faded ink.
“He was waiting for her to call.”
Mr. Lewis glanced toward Dad’s empty chair. “He recorded every contact.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
A thick envelope rested beneath the calendar.
My name appeared across the front.
I lowered myself into a chair before opening it.
