After the series began, the reporter called.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it?”
“Would you write about your daughter, from the year she was born through the year she left?”
The man listened.
“One year at a time?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Twelve years.”
“I don’t know if I have that much to write.”
“Only write what you remember.”
That night, he sat at his desk. He tried to go year by year from the day she was born. The first thing he remembered was work—how busy he had been, how late he came home. After that, he had to reach for the rest.
He remembered the sound of her playing in the house. He remembered her building things on the living-room floor. What he had been doing beside her was harder to picture. There were fewer memories of playing with her than he had expected.
He stared at the computer screen, hands still. After I finish this work. Next weekend. He started with the year she turned eight.
A few days before your birthday, Mom called me.
“This is the cake she wants this year.”
It had a character you loved on it. I was supposed to stop at the bakery after work and pick it up.
“Okay.”
I planned to leave early that day. Late in the afternoon, a dinner with a client came up. I could have said no. I didn’t.
By the time I thought to call the bakery, it was already late. I called Mom instead.
“It’s her birthday.”
“I know.”
“She’s waiting for the cake.”
“Something came up at work.”
For a moment, Mom said nothing.
“Fine. I’ll figure something out.”
The call ended. After that, I sat across from a client and laughed at the right times. When I got home, the house was dark. There was a small bakery box in the refrigerator.
One slice of cake was left inside. The next morning, I asked you,
“Did you have cake?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it good?”
“Yeah.”
That was the whole conversation. At the time, I told myself dinners with clients were part of the job, and the job was for my family too. I don’t remember what your face looked like while you waited. I wasn’t there to see it.