There was a note underneath.
« For my son. »
The second box contained a necklace that had belonged to his grandmother.
There was also a note underneath.
« For my daughter. »
Then I took out the envelopes.
There were twelve.
Each one had something different written on it in Michael’s handwriting.
« For your first day of school. »
« When you turn sixteen. »
« For your school graduation. »
« For the day you fall in love. »
I continued reading until I came to an envelope that I couldn’t open.
« For the day you need your father and I’m not there. »
That’s when I broke down.
For years I had mourned all the things Michael would never experience.
But I had never really thought about the fact that he, too, had mourned those moments.
He had already imagined them before the twins were even born.
Their birthdays.
Their first days of school.
Heartbreak.
School qualifications.
The people they would one day become.
And because he knew that he might not be there, he had found a way to still somehow experience those moments.
These letters were that way.
No gifts.
No dramatic farewell.
Small parts of him.
The voice of a father, waiting in the future for questions he himself would never hear.
Finally, I opened the envelope with my name on it.
The first thing Michael did was apologize.
He wrote that he was sorry for having hidden his diagnosis from me and for having decided for himself what I was allowed to know and what I wasn’t.
He admitted that he had made a decision that we should have made together.
And he wrote that he would understand if I hated him for it someday.
I actually did that for a while.
I hated that he made me complain about swollen feet and baby furniture while he himself carried an unimaginably heavy burden.
I hated that he had told the truth to his mother first and not to me.
I hated that he had watched me plan a future that he already knew he might not be a part of.
But then I read on.
Michael wrote that he knew he could not give his children a whole childhood with their father.
So he tried to leave small parts of himself in the places where he thought they would need him later.
Those were the letters.
No gifts.
No big farewell drama.
Parts of him.
The voice of a father, waiting in the background for questions he would never hear himself.
At the end of the letter, Michael asked me for just one thing.
He asked me not to spend every birthday staring at the empty seat where he should have been sitting.
He wrote:
« Look into their faces. That’s where I am. »
I read this sentence over and over again.
Then I looked at the twins.
They were still sitting on the floor at the table, covered all over with birthday cake, arguing over a single ribbon from the box.
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