Page 107 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“I have something,” I say. “Of my dad’s.” I reach into my coat.

Claire looks back at Eleanor who is lingering in the corner behind me. Eleanor shakes her head. “I had no idea, I just invited him to come along.”

I internally wince at how small her voice sounds.

Later, Wyatt.

I hold the letter out to Claire. “I found this in a locked box that had a bunch of letters and things from their time together. I couldn’t take the whole thing from my mom’s house. I didn’t want to upset her if she doesn’t . . . or even if she did . . .”

My poor mom. She’s never deserved anything like this.

Claire takes the note and flips it over. “This was recent.”

“Yep.”

Her thumbs slide over the paper like it’s an artifact that she needs to be delicate with. “Should we open it?”

“Sure,” I say. “You can do the honors if you want.”

Claire takes a letter opener and slices the top of the envelope open in a clean motion. She pulls out a greeting card. On the front is a print of a dog looking up. Claire snickers. “She always had a lot of cards to send to people.”

I bite my lip. Claire and I don’t just share our father. We share the grief of losing a parent. She technically has lost both, but she never had my father.

We both know how terrible the loss is. How it hollows out your heart. I want to hug her, but I’m afraid that it might open something in me. It might make me weep for all the time I believed my father was a good man, an upstanding man who would never do something like this. Or maybe I would weep to know a part of myself I never knew existed in the world.

When she opens the card, a picture falls out onto the desk.

I look down at it. It’s Claire recently wearing a cap and gown standing amidst some trees, arms crossed over her chest, smiling.

“That’s my grad school portrait,” Claire says. Her eyes travel across the inside of the card. I watch the tears well up. She folds her hand over her face. “Sorry.”

“Want me to . . .” I hold my hand out.

She nods and hands the card to me.

The handwriting is the same as the writing on the cocktail napkin I found amongst Dad’s memories. I get a tug in my throat. I have to be strong for Claire, though. For me.

I read the note aloud:

Dear Frank,

I hope Katie and the kids are well. And I hope you’re well too. We’re old now, isn’t it funny?

Anyway, I know it’s been a while. I just wanted to say thank you. Our girl did good. Better than good. Master’s degree in Animal Welfare and Behavior. She’s smarter than either of us and definitely prettier.

All my love,

Diane

I suck in my cheeks and look up at the light to keep the tears from falling. It’s such a simple note, and yet it has stabbed me in the gut and twisted the knife.

Our girl did good.

The birth certificate definitely proved enough, but seeing the words written out like that is somehow so much more real.

Claire rounds the desk and wraps her arms around me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I press my hand against her back. “Don’t be sorry.”

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