I spent my weekend going through that album over and over again. I never got tired of seeing them happy. At first, seeing mom hurt me, but I would stare at her face until I couldn't do anything else but smile upon seeing her so cheerful. God knows I tried to find other photo albums, but I couldn't open the doors of her room. I still don't have that kind of strength. So this one album had to be good enough.
At first I ignore my father in the pictures, but in the end, I can't help but look at him. I start wondering what he was like then, and what he's like now, and how it will be when I get to meet him. Then I make a mistake of starting to idealize him. I start creating a picture of father I always wanted him to be, I started making up the reasons he left, the ones so good I'd have to forgive him. I made him good in my head, I gave myself fate in him. But fate is only good if you seek disappointment, and I know that I'll probably end up being devastated when my hopes turn out to be wrong. But I keep doing it anyway, because I lost too much already so, at least, I deserve to have some hope, to have this picture of this perfect father in my mind, at least for a while. So I forgive him for leaving. Not really to him, but to the person I so desperately want him to be.
I keep imagining what he's like, and how it would be when I finally meet him, what I'd say and do. Then, I remember something. I have absolutely no way of finding him. Nor do I have any way of finding out where he is. I have never seen him or heard from him, for all that I know he could be anywhere in the world right now. Hell, for all that I know he could be dead right now. I lay down on my bed and close my eyes. For a moment I feel like every little piece of hope had left me. Except that hope never really leaves us.
Unconsciously, I start digging through every memory I had of him, which isn't all that much. And most of them are faded. One thing comes up in my head - letters. I grab to that last string of hope I suddenly found. Letters could help me find my father.
I run down to the living room. How could I forget about the letters? I remember seeing mom many times, reading them when she thought I wasn't watching. I remember her holding them close to her heart and crying on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night. She kept them in the drawer of the shelf that carried their wedding pictures. It was my luck that they weren't in her room. It's a little weird, I don't remember her reading any letters like those when I was younger. They started coming in maybe a year ago, even less. Maybe they weren't from him. But they had to be, right now, they were my only chance. This February I found one letter from Leo Wyatt, my father, piled up with the other ones that came in that Saturday. I remember how my mother looked at the white envelope and the handwriting on it. It was almost as if she had found a missing part of her soul again.
She was happy and sad at the same time, and I could never figure out which one of those was the cause of her tears. I guess that's how reminiscing works, you remember all the love and happiness that you had, and then, you realize that it's gone.
I open the drawer and the first thing I see is the red shoebox marked 'from Leo'. Now, I feel stupid for never reading them before, it's not like they were hidden. I take out the box and put it on the table, sit on the couch and spend some time eyeing it with suspicion. The fear rose inside of me. The fear of what I might, or might now, find inside. What if I don't find anything that could help me look for Leo? Even worse, what if I find out why he left. And what if his reason is something I couldn't forgive. I don't know what I want his reason to be. I want him to have a reason worth leaving his wife and son for. I want to think that he left because he had to, not because he didn't love us. But, at the same time, I want his reason to be terrible. So I don't have to stop hating him for leaving. Hate is somewhat a defense mechanism - we hate those who hurt us because not doing so is an invitation for more pain. And it's not easy to stop hating someone. It leaves you vulnerable. That why I don't want to stop hating him. Because if I do, I could get hurt if he leaves. If he leaves again. Or even worse, if he never wants to stay in the first place.
I open the box. Inside of it, I find a bunch of white papers, all of them look like they've been scrambled, and probably cried over. I spent the whole Sunday night going through them, and I notice that they all have some things in common. First, they are all super short, only a few sentences. But even those few sentences say more than enough. He doesn't focus on himself, why he had left, where he is, or why he isn't coming back. Even if my parents had problems with their marriage, you couldn't feel this in these letters. He asked how mom and I are doing in every single one of these.
Another thing that I noticed is that they all end up pretty much the same way. In the end, he always tells mom to be careful. It's not that typical 'take care'. No, this is as if he is scared for her. I don't want to get my hopes up with this, but I can't fight it. Maybe someone was after my mother, and, maybe, my father knew who or why. Each letter ends the exact same way: "Love you both, always – Leo".
I stare at that sentence every time my eyes come across it. He says he loves us both. Maybe he had a good reason to leave. Maybe I won't have to hate him any longer. But none of that matters right now. Not until I have the way to find him.
One of the letters has a phone number on it, and under it, he writes: "call me if you ever need anything". I think of calling him right there and then because I do need something. I need him to be here. For a moment I fight the urge to dial the number. I wonder what he'd say if I called him. Maybe he'd think mom's calling him. Maybe he doesn't know that she's gone. Maybe he'd be disappointed when he found out it was me. I leave the paper. I'll figure out how to find him tomorrow, it's late right now anyway, he wouldn't answer my call. I wouldn't even dare to call him, to be honest.
I try to fall asleep but I can't, so I take the letters again. For a brief moment, I feel that something is watching over me, like a guardian angel, and it makes me feel safe.
