I began crying.
He continued.
"Every time the research became difficult, I looked at that photograph."
I touched the frame.
"Why?"
His eyes filled.
"Because I wanted to remember who I was trying to help."
I looked at him.
"For twenty years?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
For a moment, I thought about all the birthdays he'd missed.
The school graduations.
My wedding.
The births of my children.
Then I looked at the photograph.
He hadn't stopped loving me.
But love hadn't been enough to keep him from making terrible choices about silence.
I took his hand.
"Dad, I want us to start again."
He began crying.
"Mara…"
I squeezed his fingers.
"Slowly."
He nodded.
"However slowly you need."
Then he opened a drawer.
"I have something for you."
It was a small notebook.
The cover was worn.
Inside were handwritten dates and scientific observations.
I turned the pages.
Then noticed something familiar.
