It was, from the first page to the last, a diary of a father’s invisible presence, the secret chronicle of a man loving a daughter he was never allowed to touch.

There was an entry from when I was ten.

Evelyn turned ten today, he had written.

Claire sent a photograph through the secure mail drop.

She has her mother’s smile, but she holds her pencil in her left hand, just like my own father did.

She won the district spelling bee.

I sat in the very back row of the auditorium, behind the light booth, so that she would not see me.

She wore a yellow dress.