Daughter by Alyona Chernysh

 "You didn't come to the funeral."

"No."

"Four hundred people came to that funeral."

"I know."

"Journalists. The mayor. People who flew in from three countries."

"I read about it."

"But not you."

"No."

"Why."

"Because I didn't want to stand in a room full of people celebrating a man I didn't recognize."

"He was your father."

"He was a stranger who shared my address for eighteen years."

"That's a terrible thing to say."

"It's a true thing."

"He loved you."

"He loved the idea of me. There's a difference."

"You're being--"

"When did he come to see me play, Serena? Once. I played for eleven years and he came once and he left at halftime because J O B called."

"He had responsibilities --"

"I know what he had."

"The foundation alone--"

"I know about the foundation. I've read the eulogies. He fed children in four countries. He built schools. He was apparently extraordinary."

"But."

"But I needed help with my math homework and he was in a business trip. I had nightmares until I was twelve and he was in Lagos. Mom cried every anniversary and he sent flowers from wherever he was instead of just coming home."

"He was doing important work."

"So was she. She raised me. Nobody's naming a building after her."

"That's not fair."

"Probably not."

"He talked about you. Constantly. Everyone knew your name."

"Talking about someone isn't knowing them."

"He was proud of you."

"For what? He didn't know what I did. He didn't know I'd quit the cello or moved to Houston or.... does he know I got married?"

"He knew."

"Did he know he left? Eight months later. Does the proud father know that part?"

"I don't --"

"He wouldn't. Because we didn't talk. Because every time I called there was a reason it wasn't good timing and eventually I stopped calling."

"He asked about you. At the end."

"What did he say."

"He said he'd gotten the math wrong somewhere. That was the phrase he used. I got the math wrong. He was an economist to the last."

"..."

"He asked me to find you. Before."

"Serena."

"He wrote you a letter. I have it."

"I don't want it."

"You might--"

"I don't want a letter. I wanted a father. Letters are what you send when you've run out of time and you know it and you want to feel like you tried without actually having to try."

"That's not--"

"Isn't it?"

"He was sick for two years. He didn't want you to see him like that."

"That wasn't his choice to make."

"He thought he was protecting you."

"Everyone in my life has decided to protect me from things I deserved to know. I'm very tired of it."

"..."

"Look, I'm sorry he's gone. Okay? I want to be clear about that. I'm sorry he's gone because now there's no chance of anything different."

"I know."

"That's the grief I have. Not the grief those four hundred people have. Mine is for something that never happened."

"That's still grief."

"Yes."

"Will you take the letter."

"..."

"You don't have to read it. Just take it."

"Why does it matter to you."

"Because I loved him and he asked me and because I think you're angrier than you are indifferent and anger means there's still something there worth--"

"Don't."

"Okay."

"Leave it on the table."

"Okay."

"And Serena."

"Yes."

"The school in Portland. The one they named after him."

"What about it."

"Is it a good school."

"It's a wonderful school."

"Good. That's good."

"Yeah."

"Leave the letter."