There was nothing, no voice on the line, no cards, no birthday wishes. Just silence that stretched across the years like a wall we never climbed. Sometimes that silence was louder than any fight could’ve been.
My father raised me entirely on his own. Every fever, every scraped knee, every late-night supermarket run because I suddenly needed poster board for a school project, he was there.
He cooked, cleaned, did my laundry, and kept the lights on, even when the power company threatened to shut us off. And not once, not a single time, did he complain.
What always surprised me most was that he never said a bad word about her. Not even in passing. Not even when he was tired, stressed, or overwhelmed.
When I was seven, I asked him what my mother looked like. He didn’t get awkward or try to change the subject. Instead, he pulled a small, worn photo out of the nightstand drawer and handed it to me carefully.
“She’s your mom, Dyl,” he said softly. “Of course, you should know what she looks like.”
She had soft brown eyes and auburn hair that spilled over her shoulders. She looked like someone in a shampoo commercial, beautiful, carefree, and untouched by life.
“Why did she leave?” I asked.
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