Page 94 of You'll Love it Here

I pull the pictures out slowly. There’s a photo of me from the kindergarten play he slept through; I remember the way my little heart was crushed seeing his empty seat next to Mom’s. A snapshot of nine-year-old me sitting on top of a toboggan; he was too hungover to pull the sled up after one run. Photos from my graduations and Christmases—me in my itchy stockings and felt dresses. (Not pictured: when he passed out under the tree in the middle of wrapping presents when I was seven, ruining the Santa myth.)

The photos continue into my teen and adult years.

But when I reach what should be the end—the years when I stopped talking to him—it doesn’t stop.

Next he has a printout of my corporate headshot, my updates on LinkedIn about my promotion. The next is a newspaper clipping of an ad I ran during my first solo campaign.

All the moments of celebration that Ididn’tinclude him in.

All those years when he was sober, but I still didn’t see him. The moments when I couldn’t forgive him—and neither could he.

I hold back the tears as I look again at the box. He had been quietly collecting all those Pez dispensers for years. He was so sorry.

But I wassomad.

I never even got to say goodbye to him. Those last few weeks, when he was trying to reach out to me and have coffee, I could’vetold him that I loved him. That I knew he was trying his best. When my mom told me he was in the hospital, I couldn’t even go.

It hits me like a fresh shock: He’snevercoming back. How can a person just be gone? How can it end without ending? Without there being a goodbye?

Burnsland Cemetery is not even a ten-minute walk from my mom’s place, but it feels like crossing a desert.

I haven’t been here since the funeral. I turn down the second sidewalk where he’s kept, and without a doubt I know which one is his. Its grey stone and arched shape have imprinted in my brain.

I feel like the stone is staring at me as I complete my approach. Accusing. Disappointed. Sad.

I take a deep breath. The dry tears tighten my cheeks as I begin to speak. “I wish things were different too,” I start. “It wasn’t always okay, how I grew up. There will be memories I’ll struggle with for as long as live.” I pause, resting my hand on the cold stone. “But I knew you loved me. I knew how sorry you were, how much regret you lived with. I understood how hard it was for you too.” My lungs constrict.

I gasp, letting the cool evening air calm me. “You really did work so hard to get sober, to try to stay sober, and I wish you’d known that I knew that. You didn’t choose the disease, but how you fought it, I admired you. I just... I always thought there’d be more time to tell you.”

I pull out the Pez dispenser I’d been carrying around in my purse for six weeks. I knew what it meant when I bought it that night; I don’t want to live with regret anymore. I don’t want to hurt people to get ahead. I don’t want to keep running from my past just to feel like I’m worthy. I don’t want to do something I hate just to feel like shame can’t reach me. Yoshi stares back at me.

I think I’ve known what I needed to do for a while, but opening my dad’s box, being here. It all feels so obvious now.

“Dad, I’m quitting my job.” And even though I’m speaking to a man who can’t answer, saying these words here feels more final than the idea of emailing my boss. (Obviously, I’ll need to do that next.)

I leave Yoshi on top of my dad’s headstone. “I hope you’ll forgive me too,” I whisper.

And as I walk away, seeing all these markers for lives lived, knowing my dad could’ve done better, but so could I, so could everyone—I finally feel the weight of all my mistakes ease, just a bit.

All we have is the time we’re given. There’s time enough to make mistakes. But if we’re lucky, we get enough time to make amends.

And so long as I’m here, it’s not too late.

Buried between piles of blazers and work trousers (all now dreadfully wrinkled), I extract the shoebox Irene gave me before I left Valleyview Apartments. It’s scuffed up and smells faintly of mothballs and old paper.

I open the lid and find several paper envelopes—the kind pharmacies used to deliver photographs in after developing them. I pull dozens of photos from each and spread them out across my bed’s comforter.

There in glossy color is Valleyview Apartments, a younger, slightly fresher version—brickwork still sharp, windows less dirty, the grass out front neatly trimmed. The photo is centered on a group of kids in bell-bottoms holding balloons on the front lawn beside a birthday cake on a folding table. I flip to the next one, which seems to have been taken on the same day. A pretty woman in high-waisted jeans is standing at the entrance to the lobby, aparty hat sitting between her curls. I recognize her instantly: Irene.

There are inside shots too—the old rec room in the basement with its wood paneling and a dartboard (Carmen must never know). A giant Christmas tree in the lobby.

Next are photos from around the neighborhood. A sign for Barry’s Video & Games. The florist shop Sami had told me about, with giant bouquets in the windows and a hand-painted Open sign. A snapshot of a young couple, holding hands in front of a café with a Persian name in neon cursive. Their son, with dark brown hair and a cheeky expression, like he’s just about to start laughing. Sami. He’s standing in front of them with a juice box. The café theme clearly hadn’t lasted long. But that look in his parents’ eyes? Pure pride.

And then, tucked at the bottom of the box, I find older photos—black-and-white, edges worn soft. The building looks brand new, almost proud of itself, with neat flower boxes under the windows and a hand-carved wooden sign above the door displaying its name. On either side, you can see the outlines of neighboring buildings, built in the same style—structures that are long gone now.

I sit on the bed for a long time with that shoebox open in front of me. It’s a little overwhelming. I thought I knew this building—but this feels different, like Irene handed me the memories closest to her heart.

Later that afternoon, I take the whole box to a copy shop. I carefully photocopy every photo, then buy some plastic sleeves to preserve the real ones.