Chapter 2
Series 1 Chapter 2
Inside the pink rabbit cover of her shoulder bag lay a small stamp album.
I walked onto the stage, pulled Ellie into my arms, and bowed to the judges.
"I'm sorry," I said. "My daughter isn't feeling well. We must leave."
The whispers started before we even reached the stairs.
People sighed, pointed, and judged.
They wondered if the child was mentally unstable. They questioned how her mother had raised her.
I offered no explanations.
Ellie did not cry as we walked off the stage.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a commemorative giant panda stamp.
That morning, she had carefully peeled it from the 49th slot and carried it with her, because Joe had promised to sit in the front row.
But even as we walked out of the exhibition hall, the seat in the very center remained empty.
Ellie stared at that empty seat for a long time.
She had saved up for three months to get that stamp.
She looked down and traced the perforated edges with her thumb. She lifted it to her nose to smell the faint scent of dried adhesive.
Then, she folded it. Once. Twice.
Her small fingernails pressed into the stamp, leaving pale creases.
With a sharp rip, she tore it in half along the perforations. Then, she tore it into quarters.
She squeezed the torn stamp pieces in her palm. They grew damp with sweat.
When we passed a trash bin in the hallway, she opened her hand. She let the scraps fall in.
“Mommy, let’s go home.”
Outside the car window, rain lashed the streets.
Ellie pressed her forehead against the cool glass the entire ride. Her right index finger tapped rhythmically against her knee.
One, two.
She wasn't playing a game.
My reflection in the rearview mirror showed my chest tightening.
I couldn't breathe. She was counting how many chances her father had left.
The house felt freezing when we stepped inside.
Ellie shifted her backpack to her left hand. She pulled out the 52-slot stamp album with the pink rabbit cover.
She placed it squarely in the center of the dining table.
The fuzzy little rabbit on the cover had long since been worn smooth.
Joe had brought it back for her as a thoughtless airport duty-free gift when she turned five.
Yet Ellie treated it like gold.
Joe once told her stamps were tiny promises people sent across long distances. Ellie believed him.
She always washed her hands meticulously before touching it.
She flipped the album directly to the final page.
There were 52 slots, arranged in neat rows.
The first 49 slots were completely empty. They were marred only by yellowish adhesive stains left behind by violent tearing.
They silently logged every single time Joe had failed her over the past two years.
It hurt Ellie every time she dug these stamps out.
She would just save the torn scraps in a small glass jar, screwing the lid tight.
The jar was already more than half full.
She stared at the 50th slot for a long time.
The limited-edition storm dove stamp was still pasted there.
It was the only gift Joe had ever given her in person, on time, for her sixth birthday.
It was her most prized possession.
And she had placed it in the 50th slot herself, saving it for one last chance — her birthday next Friday.
Ellie pressed her small fingertip against the dove's wings, smoothing it down.
She didn't scratch it away like the others.
She even leaned down, trying to catch a hint of her father's scent on the paper.
But in the end, she just sniffed.
She pulled a sharp pencil from her pencil box.
Below the 50th slot, she wrote in crooked, tiny handwriting:
“One more time. If Daddy doesn’t come, I won’t wait anymore.”
She laid the pencil down and turned her face to me.
Her eyes were too still.
"Mommy," she asked, sliding the album toward me.
She sounded too calm for a seven-year-old.
"Can it end now?"
I couldn't form words.
Right at that moment, the sound of a key turning cut through the silence.
Click.
The door lock popped open. It brought in the damp, freezing air of the storm outside.
The door swung inward.
Joe stood just inside the door holding a premium cake box.
His suit sleeves were rolled up.
His hair was messy from the wind.
He carried that familiar, calculated expression of guilt on his face.