“Rex, listen to me. I think your mom had some kind of undiagnosed heart condition. I don’t know for sure because there were no further investigations done at the time. But we know a lot more about the dangers of undiagnosed heart problems in pregnancy these days.”

The words undiagnosed heart condition stretches out inside me beside my guilt. And my guilt eyes it, sizing it up like I do when a new dude rolls up on the basketball court with the same build as me or the same height as me or the same shoes as me (basically with anything like me).

“Did I do this? Do you think it’s your fault because of me? I’m so sorry. I’ve been such an awful father,” he continues. “Your mother would’ve been so disappointed in me.” He looks down briefly and then right back up, eyes full of tears. “Look, I’ve done a terrible job loving you, but you need to know it’s not your fault. You were only a baby. It’s a miracle you’ve turned out as amazing as you have. I just didn’t know how,” he says, his voice cracking. His tears start to fall.

“Nah, you don’t get to cry. You were the adult! I was the child!” I scream, feeling It’s not your fault trying to find its way deeper inside of me.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I checked out. And after being checked out for so long, I didn’t know how to get back to you. How to talk to you. I was so depressed. Every time I saw you, I saw her. Even right now, looking at you, I see her. Her cheekbones. Her moles. The way she always slightly held her head to the side. The same pure look in her big eyes.”

My father’s words stun me. Me look like Mom? Nah. When I was a little boy, I used to be obsessed with looking at Mom’s pictures. At her face, her outfits, her hair, her poses, her surroundings—anything that would clue me in about who she was. But after I realized her pictures ran out the day she gave birth to me, I stopped looking at them. And shortly thereafter, I stopped looking at myself. And now standing here, I can’t really picture either one of us.

I back away from my father, walk over to my file cabinet, open my bottom drawer, and take out the white wooden box that houses Mom’s old photos.

On top of the stack, there’s a picture of her posing in front of a brick wall painted like pixels. She’s sporting an afro with her arms on her hips and her head tilted to the side. She’s a lot lighter than I am. And shorter. I can’t see it.