Darling Kate

Today is your birthday. You would have turned thirty two today. Not many people know that. You always managed to hide your age from people. It was Lanie who told me when your birthday was, and how old you would be turning.

She told me last year, but I never did anything about it. I wanted to wait, to see how you acted on the day itself. You seemed sad that day, I remember. You hid it well, but you never could hide it from me. I could always see it in your eyes.

I figured it was because your Mom wasn't there to share the special day with you, so you didn't want to have to share it with anyone. I hope your Dad wished you a happy birthday. No matter how much it hurt, you deserved birthday wishes from someone who cared about you.

I don't know if my theory was correct, and I guess now I never will. I went to see your dad today. He showed me a photo album he has, every year on your birthday; he took a picture of you.

The first tears fell at the picture of you looking all scrunched up, and angrier than I've ever seen you, barely ten minutes old. You were beautiful even then, having only just been exposed to the harsh reality of life on earth.

He flicked through the pictures of you as a toddler, stopping on one taken on your sixth birthday. You were opening a present, and there was a look of glee like nothing I've seen before on your face. I wonder what that gift was. In that picture, your mother is watching you with utter adoration.

I wish I'd gotten to meet her. I feel almost like I did, knowing you. You were so extraordinary. I know you always felt that you couldn't hold a candle to your mother, but she must have been unfathomable to hold a candle to you.

The next picture I lingered on was one of you at twelve. You were just entering that awkward stage of adolescence where your legs and arms were too long for your body, and you curled in on yourself to hide your chest. Your face was sullen, like you could think of nothing worse than having a photo taken of you, but your eyes sparkled with love for the people behind the camera.

The next one made my heart stop. You'd grown out of the awkward stage, you must have been fifteen. You'd lost your puppy fat, and your cheekbones were the first thing I noticed. You looked so beautiful. Your hair was darker, and so were your clothes. I could see you slipping into that angst ridden phase you used to tell me about sometimes.

You grew more and more beautiful each year after that. And then you were twenty, and the light in your eyes was gone. The picture didn't look like a birthday photo; I wouldn't have known it was, except that was the purpose of the album. You were sitting at the table, staring at your cake. Every year previously, the cake had looked homemade, but this one was blatantly store bought. I have never known anyone to look at a cake with such venom.

For a long time after that, the pictures were all the same. Candid shots of you looking morose. I don't know who took them. At that time, your dad was drowning in the bottle.

They stopped hurting so much to look at when your dad started appearing again, but there was still pain in your eyes. Then one year, the pain seemed a little less overbearing, it was no longer the only emotion. I rested my finger on that one.

Your dad told me that was the year that I showed up. He thanked me, Katie. For doing what I could to save you. He thanked me for being there when you were slipping away. I cried, and so did he, but there was no shame. No man should have to watch their daughter get shot in front of them. I'll take care of him Kate, I promise you that. I think he's found some solace in Alexis. The two of them are quite close now; he's at the loft a lot, talking to her. I've only seen him smile when he's with her.

He gave me the book Kate. He said he had the memories, the least he could do was give me the pictures. I will treasure that book for the rest of my life, but it will always seem empty to me. There should be at least sixty more pictures in it. It hurts to look at, but it's a good kind of pain. The kind of pain that feels like something inside of me is healing.

I miss you, and I love you

Rick