A father that never was.

On the kitchen table he left a letter, so that she’d know. But she already had known he wouldn’t be there when she returned. It was no surprise, only a realistic end to their love affair. A predictable conclusion to all his affairs. He left her because she refused his proposal. Although she was pregnant, his motive for asking her hand in marriage was not a noble one. The motive was convenience, the convenience of having a wife. To support him so he may lead a life of leisure to write his novels. And he had a reputation for leaving his past wives with such ease, a man without a conscience. She did not make their mistake. Marriage would only delay the inevitable. And she was still in love with her husband of ten years, a time when she was her most beautiful. When the laughing lines around her mouth started to show when she was not, he left her too. They stared at him with the knowledge they would only grow with time.

An immigrant in a new country, she chose a difficult life to raise the child alone, no family, no father. As her belly grew her worries greatened until her child came to her in a dream, still unborn, a small girl standing nude in the snow. She struggled to keep her daughter warm with only her arms at her disposal, while the street’s crowd ignored her cries for help. And all the child said was that they would be okay. And when she woke she believed they’d be okay.

And they were okay under the circumstances of their lives. But somewhere the child would always feel hollow, strange. The daughter would spend most of her life searching for an identity she worried she would never find. She would dissect the lines of her father’s books searching for a resemblance, some understanding, thoughts inherited. She would listen to her mother’s stories about her father’s life intently, however biased.

She learned that her father was the kind of man who left women in letters. From the photos she knew she shared his smile. And all she really knew was his name.