One Sunday the phone rang. It was my daughter.
“Dad, where are you?” he asked me, with a surprise that I couldn’t ignore.
—In the mountains—I replied.
—In the mountains?
—Yes, I came to spend the weekend with some friends.
There was a long silence on the other end. Then he said:
—I didn’t know you had friends you went on trips with.
I smiled before answering.
—You never asked.
I didn’t say it out of spite or with the intention of hurting her. Perhaps that’s why it hurt her so much.
A different kind of birthday
A few weeks later, my birthday arrived. I woke up without any expectations, something that had never happened to me before. In previous years, I would sit by the phone hoping someone in my family would remember the date. This time, I had plans of my own: Mircea and the others had reserved a table at a restaurant.
Around ten in the morning, my daughter called me.
—Happy birthday, Dad!
—Thank you, my daughter.
—What are you going to do today?
—I’m going out to eat.
-With who?
—With my friends.
That awkward pause again on the other end of the line.
“We wanted to stop by your house tonight,” he finally said.
