I couldn’t help but look at the calendar as the day approached.
Three more days. Two more days.
Though only ten, she felt it too.
Only once did she ask me why she had to go, why she couldn’t live with me.
The question floated over my sea of bitter resentment me like a scrap of paper drifting across a bed of molten lava, burning away before it could touch.
You just can’t, honey.
Later, I dragged out my old Hermes Rocket and started the first of many letters to her.
You can’t save a box of emails.
Since my daughters moved away in 2013, I have written more than three hundred letters to them, typing almost all of them. They seldom write back, but that’s not why I do it.