The Daughter They Abandoned Is The Doctor They Can’t Reach Chapter 29
When the year was up, my mother sent a single email.
*If you’re willing, we can stay in touch in whatever way feels right to you.*
There were no repeated calls, no surprise appearances on campus.
My father’s name wasn’t on it.
I let the message sit for three days before replying:
“The first week of each month, one email is fine. Do not ask for my address, class schedule, or personal relationships. Do not share the contents of my emails publicly.”
My mother agreed.
For the first few months, she kept trying to write things like, *We only did it for Tessa.*
I never argued. I just reminded her:
“If you need to explain, don’t write.”
Eventually, her emails grew shorter.
She told me the flowers in the yard had bloomed. That the community bookstore had a new sign. She also apologized, formally, for forgetting my birthday.
My father still didn’t contact me directly.
Not until the end of my sophomore year, when he added a short paragraph to the end of one of my mother’s emails.
*I used to say you never needed worrying over. The truth is, that just made life easier for me. By the time I realized you truly didn’t need me anymore, it was already too late.*
I read it and didn’t respond to that part.
Acknowledging his mistake was his work.
Deciding how much of it I accepted was my right.
We never became the family from the news photo.
On holidays, I sometimes answered one of my mother’s emails. Tessa and I settled into exchanging brief messages two or three times a year. My father never again asked me to cover for him, and he never brought up the fund.
The account stayed in his name.
I never used it.
In my junior year, Professor Warren helped me secure a research stipend from another institution.
The money went into the account I had opened when I was eighteen.
When the bank alert popped up, I remembered my first bookstore paycheck.
Back then, that account could only hold my next step.
Now, it could hold the direction I had chosen for myself.