She was Dad’s sister and lived about 30 minutes away.
I wanted to give up.
We spoke occasionally, but I’d always told her things were fine.
Vanessa was often nearby when she called. Besides, admitting how unhappy I was felt like admitting I’d failed.
This time, I typed something different.
“Aunt Ria, I need help.”
I nearly deleted it.
“Aunt Ria, I need help.”
Then I remembered Dad coming home exhausted one evening and finding me upset over a broken schoolbag strap.
He’d worked late, but he sat down and repaired it.
“Everybody notices my hearing aids,” I’d complained.
“People notice lots of things.”
“You don’t understand.”
I remembered Dad coming home exhausted.
He stopped working and faced me.
“You’re right. Tell me what I’m missing.”
I’d explained how tired I was of asking people to repeat themselves.
He listened without interrupting.
