Whenever I asked whether something was wrong, he smiled and said he was simply tired.
One evening, while Mom was preparing dinner, he sat beside me on the sofa.
“Claire, do you remember the old garden behind St. Mary’s Church?”
I frowned.
“Not really. Why?”
“Your mother and I used to visit it when you were little. There’s something I want to show you there.”
“Something for my birthday?”
He hesitated.
“Something you should have seen a long time ago.”
His answer unsettled me, but I agreed to go.
The following Saturday, he picked me up shortly after lunch. We drove for nearly forty minutes, leaving the busy streets behind until the road narrowed between tall trees.
The garden looked forgotten.
The iron gate was covered in rust, weeds grew between the stones, and an old wooden bench stood beneath a massive oak tree.
Dad parked the car and walked ahead of me.
