Her head snapped toward me.
“No.”
The answer came so quickly I believed it.
“I spent years trying to get him to go.”
“Did he forgive you?”
Publicidad
She suggested it when I was ten.
Dad said we couldn’t afford it.
She suggested it after his promotion.
He said work was too busy.
She suggested it for their twenty-fifth anniversary.
Dad said we couldn’t afford it.
Dad said the people he knew were probably gone.
“They weren’t,” Mom said.
“How do you know?”
“Christmas cards.”
I stared at her.
Publicidad
“They sent cards?”
“For years.”
“Did Dad answer?”
“Sometimes.”
“They sent cards?”
“Then why would he think they didn’t want him?”
Mom gave a sad little shrug.
“Because every card reminded him how long it had been.”
One summer she finally told him she’d buy the ticket herself.
Dad said, “Next year.”
“Every card reminded him how long it had been.”
Publicidad
Next year became another decade.
I looked at the chair again.
“Who sent this?”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
Her eyes filled.
“I know who sent it.”
“Who?”
“I know who sent it.”
She took a long time.
Then she said, “I asked her to.”
I stared at her.
