Chapter 11 - THE CARDS
Daniel had written Emma a birthday card every year after she died.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Up to eighteen.
Then stopped.
Why?
He met Claire around the eleventh card.
Married before thirteen.
Lily was born before Emma would have turned nineteen.
Daniel felt increasingly ashamed writing to a dead daughter while building a living family.
So he stopped.
Then, when Lily turned nine, he started again.
But the new cards were different.
Not written to the age Emma would be now.
Written to:
Emma, age nine.
Over and over.
Different versions of the same missing year.
Happy ninth birthday.
I’m sorry.
We made it to the museum.
You loved the pancakes.
You hated the dinosaur exhibit.
Imagined memories.
Claire stared.
Daniel had been trying to manufacture the year he lost.
Then one card included:
Lily would like you.
Claire closed her eyes.
Another:
Sometimes I think you would hate that I have another daughter.
Then:
I hate myself for thinking that.
The cards showed no delusion that Emma was alive.
Daniel knew she was dead.
He was rehearsing impossible conversations.
Psychologically painful.
But reality-based.
That distinction mattered.
Then Claire found one addressed differently:
TO LILY — IF YOU EVER FIND THIS.
She hesitated.
Daniel said:
“Don’t read it.”
Claire stared.
“Why?”
“I wrote it when I was in a bad place.”
“That’s not enough.”
He asked Dr. Morris what to do.
The therapist said:
“If it concerns Lily and exists because of the secret use of her identity, Claire may have a legitimate reason to know. But Daniel can disclose it himself.”
Daniel opened it.
Read aloud.
Lily, none of this is because you weren’t enough.
Then:
Sometimes your life hurts because Emma’s stopped.
Claire began crying.
Then:
That is my problem, not yours.
Daniel stopped.
May you like
He had known the correct sentence.
He simply had not lived by it.
