The official documents did not vanish.

I made them irrelevant by refusing to read them.

Over the years, I paid what my lawyers told me was required.

I never sent a birthday card, never asked for a photograph, and never visited.

I sometimes mentioned, after a second glass of wine, that I had a child from a previous marriage.

A child, singular.

It became part of a polished biography that made me sound regretful without demanding that I change.

Now two young women had stood on a stage within walking distance of me.