There was one thing my daughter still couldn’t remember.
What happened immediately after she left our house.
We returned to my old home.
The house looked smaller than I remembered.
I took her into her old bedroom.
Nothing had been touched.
Not completely.
Her books were still on the shelf.
Her old stuffed rabbit was inside the closet.
On the wall was a faded photograph of the two of us at the beach.
She walked slowly around the room.
Then she stopped.
“Mom?”
I froze.
It was the first time she had called me that.
“Yes?”
“I remember something.”
“What?”
She pointed toward the window.
“I stood there.”
I looked at her.
“You stood where?”
“Right there.”
She closed her eyes.
“I was angry.”
I nodded.
“I told you I hated you.”
My heart broke.
“You didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
She took a breath.
“And you said…”
She struggled.
I waited.
“You said, ‘Then go. See how far you get.’”
I started crying.
“Yes.”
“But then…”
Her face changed.
“There was a knock.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Someone knocked on the door.”
She looked at me.
“And you went to answer it.”
I felt a chill run through me.
“That never happened.”
She shook her head.
“It did.”
“Who was there?”
“I don’t know.”
She pressed her fingers against her temple.
Then suddenly she whispered:
“Dad.”
The room went silent.
“He was standing outside.”
My blood ran cold.
“He told me to come with him.”
I remembered that night.
Or at least, I remembered thinking my daughter had left alone.
But perhaps I had been wrong.
Perhaps someone had been waiting outside.
Perhaps I had unknowingly opened the door to the person who would change both our lives forever.
Part 7 — The Reunion
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