Page 68 of Forgive Me Not
Gail,
Once again, I’m so sorry. I miss you and the girls but understand why we can no longer live together.
I have no right to ask, but I’d be so very grateful if you would show this card to little Emma when she is old enough to read.
Sorry again. I hope one day you can forgive me.
Jean-Claude
Emma sat bolt upright and studied the postmarks again. The colours of the room spun as if she were living in the centre of a kaleidoscope. The printed postmark writing on the front of the envelopes was in French. Why hadn’t she noticed?
Her father had sent this.
But how was that possible? Mum never kept secrets from Emma. Emma never kept secrets from Mum. It was a pact Gail had made with both of her daughters.
Had it meant nothing?
She picked up the card. A large number 1 decorated the front. She opened it up.
Dear Emma,
Happy first birthday.
I think of you often.
Papa
But he’d dumped her, not cared, abandoned her a matter of months after she was born…
With shaking hands she picked up an envelope dated a few years later. This time there was no note to Gail.
My darling Emma,
So now you are seven. I hope you are behaving well for your mother. I’m sure you are – you were always a content baby. From the short time we were together, I remember you didn’t ask for much. Just a funny face would make you laugh. A big bottle of milk meant you slept through the night.
The unusual colour of your eyes, green speckled with chocolate brown, is etched in my memory. That and your button nose come from my grandmother.
Happy birthday.
Papa
Feeling sick, Emma opened the one from her thirteenth year.
Dearest Emma,
Enjoy teenagehood. It might be scary at times, but your mum will give you good advice, of that I am sure.
I don’t know if she is giving you these cards. If she is, I just want you to know I still think of you every morning when I get up. I have not forgotten you. Never will.
If she’s isn’t, I hope some day you get to read this. Don’t blame her. I used to be a difficult person to live with.
Happy birthday.
Papa
Emma stared at her bed sheets. All this time, she’d thought she’d meant nothing to him. All that time, before treatment, she’d never felt good enough.
How could Gail not have not passed on these letters? How could she have let Emma believe her father had thrown her away like a dirty tissue? That there must have been something wrong with her? That she wasn’t as worthy of fatherly love as Andrea or other children?
