“No.”
I wasn’t arguing with Dolly.
I was arguing with reality.
My father had spent decades watching me wonder what happened to Laura.
He had watched my mother cry.
He had watched me celebrate birthdays with one empty chair in my mind.
And he knew.
He knew she was alive.
That evening, I drove to my father’s house.
He was eighty-seven by then.
Slower.
Thinner.
But still mentally sharp.
When I walked inside holding the wooden sunflower, he took one look at it and went completely still.
I didn’t say hello.
I placed it on the table.
“Tell me.”
His face changed.
“Margaret.”
“Tell me the truth.”
He looked at the sunflower.
Then closed his eyes.
That was enough.
I started crying.
“You knew.”
He didn’t deny it.
“You knew she was alive.”
“I did.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
“How long?”
His voice was barely audible.
“Thirty-two years.”
I stared at him.
“Thirty-two years?”
He nodded.
I had imagined so many monsters over the decades.
Kidnappers.
Strangers.
Accidents.
Bad luck.
I had never imagined my own father standing between me and the truth.
“She came back?”
“Yes.”
“With a little girl?”
“Yes.”
“And you sent her away?”
His face crumpled.
“I thought I was protecting everyone.”
I laughed through tears.
