Chapter 1

Five minutes before our ten-year-old daughter was called onstage to receive the biggest writing award of her life, my husband walked out of the auditorium for another woman’s son.

“Nico only has me right now,” Graham said as he reached for his coat. “I’ll be back before they call Sylvie’s name.”

“The ceremony starts in five minutes.”

“Then I’ll be quick.”

“Your daughter is waiting for you.”

Graham glanced toward the stage, then back at his phone.

Daphne’s seven-year-old son had locked himself inside a bathroom after an argument at school. According to her, he refused to come out unless Graham went to him.

“Nico needs me,” Graham said.

Then he left.

Now Sylvie stood beneath the bright stage lights, clutching her gold-trimmed writing trophy against her chest.

Camera flashes lit up the auditorium as her eyes searched the front row.

She was looking for her father.

Three weeks earlier, Graham had promised her:

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, bug.”

Sylvie had believed him.

She always did.

But the seat beside me remained empty.

The fragile hope in her eyes slowly disappeared.

She thanked her teacher and stepped down from the stage without finishing the speech she had practiced for two weeks.

She didn’t cry.

That frightened me more than tears would have.

We waited outside the auditorium for twenty minutes after the ceremony ended.

Parents took pictures.

Fathers lifted their children into their arms.

Sylvie stood beside me, holding her trophy with both hands.

Every few seconds, she looked toward the parking lot.

Graham never came back.

On the drive home, Sylvie sat silently in the back seat.

Her phone remained in her hand, but the screen never lit up.

When we entered the house, she didn’t ask for the celebratory pancakes Graham had promised.

She walked directly into her bedroom.

On her desk sat a large glass jar labeled Someday.

Inside were thirty-seven folded blue notes.

Thirty-seven promises Graham had made and failed to keep.

Sylvie opened her drawer, took out another piece of blue paper, and slowly wrote:

#38: Dad didn’t come to my awards ceremony.

Then she turned the paper over and added something else.

Before I could read it, she folded the note and dropped it into the jar.

She screwed the lid shut.

Usually, after adding a new note, she placed the jar back beside her bed.

Tonight, she carried it to the closet and pushed it onto the highest shelf.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“We can throw it away.”

Sylvie shook her head.

“No. If I throw it away, Dad might think none of it happened.”

Her voice was calm, but her fingers trembled around the glass.

“He’ll probably promise to come next time,” she said.

I couldn’t answer.

We both knew he would.

And we both knew she would once again be expected to forgive him.

Sylvie looked up at me.

There were no tears in her eyes.

Only a tiredness no ten-year-old child should have understood.

“Mom,” she whispered, “if I stop waiting for him, does that make me a bad daughter?”

I pulled her into my arms.

But for the first time, I realized something that broke my heart.

Sylvie wasn’t waiting for her father anymore.