Mark attended.
He wore his gray suit.
He sat in the audience and applauded when she crossed the stage.
Afterward, he looked at me.
“Who’s that beautiful young woman?”
My heart tightened.
“That’s Sophie, sweetheart. Our daughter.”
He stared at her in amazement.
“We have a daughter?”
I nodded.
He smiled.
“Well, isn’t she something?”
“She certainly is.”
He looked at me.
“Does she know how proud I am of her?”
I swallowed my tears.
“She knows, Mark. You’ve been telling her since the day she was born.”
—
He no longer remembers our address.
Sometimes he doesn’t recognize Dave, who still visits every Thursday to talk about baseball.
He no longer remembers the old dock.
Or Room 12.
Or the little hardware store where we met.
And most days, he doesn’t remember my name.
I’m simply the friendly woman who visits every morning.
He likes me.
