“But you never even told me you loved me.”
He lowered his head.
“I didn’t know how to say it. I only knew how to work, pay for your education, stay awake when you were sick, and watch from a distance to make sure you got home safely. I thought that was enough.”
Robert then approached us and placed an old photograph on the table. In it, my young father was holding a newborn baby.
Me.
“Emily,” Robert said, “this man was offered a highly paid job abroad back then. Instead, he sold his car, turned down the job, and raised a child with whom he shared no blood. When we asked why he was sacrificing his life for someone else’s baby, he said, ‘She isn’t someone else’s. She’s my daughter.’”
I could no longer hold back my tears.
Finally, I opened my mother’s letter.
