I immediately called an ambulance.
At the hospital, the doctor examined Emma’s foot.
It turned out that she had injured herself on a sharp seashell at the beach, and the small wound had become infected.
The doctor prescribed treatment and assured me that Emma would make a full recovery.
But one question was still tormenting me.
Why had my father been taking Emma to that hotel for weeks?
When we were finally alone, I asked him:
“Dad, are you going to tell me the truth now?”
He remained silent for a long time.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
Inside were several photographs.
The first showed my mother when she was young.
The second showed me at around ten years old.
And in the third photograph, Emma was standing in a large hotel ballroom, holding a small violin.
