Other questions begin to flood into my head. It’s as if I finally removed the stopper that had been placed years ago, and now everything is rushing out. “I know that she died of cancer, but was it sudden? Did I know she was sick? Did she try to hide it from me? Was I different after?”

How had I never wondered about these things before? It could be because Dad is always focused on the future. “Let’s look straight ahead,” he used to say when we would pick up and move to a new place. But he also does that with everything else: we rarely talk about the past. Everything is looking ahead.

Maybe that’s what happens when you have a painful past: you can only assume the future will be better. The old wounds are too painful—there’s no point in picking at them. But I know that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m digging into the most tender part of Dad’s past and asking him to relive his pain. For years, I’ve tried not to bring up Mom because I didn’t want to hurt him, but now I have so many questions I can’t stuff them back inside me and pretend they don’t exist.

He rubs his eyes. “Where’s this coming from?”

“All these big questions I’ve been thinking about for these essays … I guess they’ve made me examine my life in a different way. Then I realized there’s a lot about my past I don’t know.”

Dad looks defeated as he puts the burgers and brats on a plate. He covers the grill and heads inside. I follow him. He pauses at the counter that separates the living room and kitchen. His back is to me and I’m afraid to move. I should’ve known better than to have this conversation with him. He’s done so much for me, and how do I repay him? I open up the oldest, deepest wounds, all so I can write a silly essay.

But it’s more than that. I want to know these things. Then maybe when people ask me about my mom, I’m not so distant and cold about the woman who gave birth to me. Who raised me for my first three years.

“I really don’t know what to tell you,” Dad finally says. He turns around and all the color from his face has been drained. He looks tired. He looks old. “Your mom got sick, then she died. You were so young I didn’t know what else to do. So we moved. I needed to get away from the memories.”

“Was I close with her?” I ask. I can’t imagine I could ever have the kind of bond like the one Dad and I share with anyone, but usually girls are closer to their moms.