I managed.
I taught myself how to braid their hair by watching YouTube tutorials at 5 AM.
I stitched costumes for three school productions every year.
And at every mother-daughter breakfast, I was the only dad there.
The girls demanded that I attend, every single year.
Chloe, Abigail, and Harper grew into strong, hilarious, compassionate young women.
Not one of them can remember what their mother’s voice sounded like.
For twenty-one years, there was nothing.
Not one phone call.
Not a birthday card.
Not even a message.
Then everything changed last Saturday.
We were gathered in our backyard celebrating the girls’ 21st birthday.
Fairy lights were hanging everywhere, there were three separate cakes because they refuse to share one, and about forty guests had come to celebrate with us.
At exactly 6 PM, a courier van stopped along the curb.
“Delivery for Chloe, Abigail, and Harper?”
The driver carried three identical velvet boxes.
They were deep blue, tied with ribbons, and surprisingly heavy considering their small size.
Then I noticed what was sitting on top of them, an envelope bearing handwriting I hadn’t seen in twenty-one years:
