“I believe you,” I finally said.
Julian looked surprised.
“But?”
“But I need to know how it got there.”
He nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
That sentence caught me off guard.
A few days ago, I would have expected him to become defensive.
Instead, he looked at the photograph.
“Can I ask something?”
“What?”
“Why did you never tell me about your father?”
I looked away.
Because the truth was complicated.
Because some memories were not painful because they were dramatic.
Some were painful because they were ordinary.
A childhood filled with small moments.
A father who smiled when guests were around.
A father who everyone admired.
A father who knew exactly how to appear like a good man.
“My father was respected,” I said.
Julian waited.
“Everyone loved him.”
“But you didn’t?”
I swallowed.
“I loved him because he was my father.”
The distinction mattered.
“But I was afraid of him.”
