Years later, Dad had added one of his own. In it, three young people stood together.
Dad was near the back. So was Mom.
But beside them stood another young woman whose face had been scratched almost completely away.
My stomach tightened.
“Who is she?”
The waitress didn’t answer.
Instead, she reached beneath the booth and pulled out a small envelope taped underneath.
My name was written across the front.
“Rachel.”
I froze. “How long has that been there?”
“Your father puts a new one here before every date.”
Before I could touch it, someone behind me said, “Please don’t open that.”
I turned.
The woman standing beside the bar looked to be in her mid-60s. Silver hair, blue coat, both hands wrapped around a handbag.
I looked from her to the photograph.
Same narrow jaw. Same deep-set eyes.
Even beneath the scratches, I knew it was her.
“You were here last night,” I said.
She nodded.
“You are the woman who canceled on Dad.”
“I was the woman he met. It wasn’t a date.”
The waitress quietly walked away.
I looked at her.
“Then who are you?”
The woman glanced at the photograph. “My name is Helen.”
“How do you know my father?”
