“I do.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“I found another box of old papers at Dad’s.”
I waited.
“I’m not bringing it over tonight.”
“All right.”
“I just thought you should know.”
“Thank you.”
He ended the call.
I put my phone down.
For years, I had imagined the story would end differently.
Arthur would someday appear.
Apologize.
Explain.
And there would be one clean answer waiting.
Why he told me I was no longer his daughter.
Why he kept the photograph.