I opened it.
Articles. Printed out. Dozens of them. Some yellowed. Some new.
Triangle Business Journal, 2014: “Durham Startup Tidewater Systems Lands Port of Norfolk Contract.”
News & Observer, 2017: “Women-Led Tech Company Expands to 50 Employees.”
Forbes, 2020: “The Women Quietly Rebuilding America’s Supply Chain.”
Charlotte Business Journal, 2022: “Atlanta Firm Acquires Tidewater Systems in Eight-Figure Deal.”
On every one, in the margin, in my father’s blocky handwriting, a date.
The date he read it.
And on some of them, a few words.
2014 — She did it. — P.R.
2017 — 50 people. My daughter. — P.R.
2020 — Forbes. Showed the guys at the club. They didn’t believe me. — P.R.
2022 — Sold. Should call her. — P.R.
Should call her.
He never did.
I looked up at my father.
He was standing on my porch. Sixty-eight. In his windbreaker. Looking at the ocean.
“Dad,” I said.
He looked at me.
“You can call me,” I said. “Any time. You just have to ask.”
