Dad dressed well every day. He would wear the clothes that Mom ironed for him and put on the shoes that she polished until they shone.
He would then accuse Mom of not looking presentable.
But Mom was so busy all the time. She took care of me meticulously and had to clean the rooms to make them neat and tidy. She had no time to dress herself up.
Even so, Dad said, “Look at Judy. She raises her pup on her own and still manages to look beautiful every single day. Why don’t you learn from her?”
However, Dad never noticed that Judy’s pup, who was two years older than me, was even thinner and smaller. His clothes never fit him well, unlike mine. Every dress I owned was clean and pretty.
Why couldn’t Dad ever admit how capable Mom was?
Mom stood up warily and turned an ice–cold gaze on Dad.
Dad was as pale as a sheet, and he swayed on his feet. When he saw my photo on the gravestone, he looked crushed.
He shook his head desperately, and there was an accusing look in his eyes when he looked at Mom.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “I didn’t get to see my pup one last time. I wasn’t even there with her when she was buried. Sandy, do you really hate me that much? You even hid my pup’s death from me!”
