My dad’s second family lived fifteen minutes from our house.
It was a Sunday in late October.
In the back seat, under an old jacket, I found a crumpled paper bag from a local supermarket.
We hadn’t had baby things in our house for years.
I put everything back, but kept the receipt in my pocket.
I typed the address into my phone.
The building was a usual gray nine-story block.
I rang the bell.
He froze.
“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “This is Anna.”
There were kids’ drawings on the wall.
The woman’s name was Laura.
I did the math in my head.
My dad finally tried to speak.
I didn’t shout.
It was the only time I saw an adult’s world collapse in real time.
I don’t remember how long I stayed.
He went to her automatically.
At home, my mom was making soup.
I told her everything.
When my dad came home that night, the soup was still on the stove.
He moved out a week later.
Sometimes I see him in the supermarket.
The apartment with the kids is still fifteen minutes away.
