Young, perhaps 28 years old.
Holding a little girl in my arms.
On the back, someone had written:
“Emily. May 16, 1982.”
I could barely breathe.
“Is this… our daughter?”
Robert nodded.
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
He remained silent.
“Robert! Where is my child?”
“You asked me to help you forget her.”
I stared at him, unable to understand.
Robert explained that 44 years earlier, our daughter had disappeared.
Afterward, I had supposedly suffered a devastating psychological breakdown.
According to him, a doctor had recommended an experimental treatment designed to suppress traumatic memories.
But the treatment came with an unusual condition.
I had to take a special preparation regularly.
That was why Robert had made the same soup every Sunday.
“You’re telling me that for 44 years, you’ve been giving me something to make me forget my own daughter?”
He nodded through his tears.
“I was afraid of losing you.”
I stepped away from him in horror.
