Last November, my mother called me around 10 p.m. My boyfriend and I were in the middle of dinner — we eat late because of his work schedule — and I squinted at my phone before answering. I’d been trying to spend less time messing around with my phone, especially during meals, but my mother had worked the same job in Indiana for two decades and was almost always asleep by 9. Seeing her name flash on the screen, I was worried.
I wrote him back by hand approximately three times. I had been receiving his letters since before I could read, and wanted to respond much more often than I did. How do you catch someone up on your entire life? I didn’t know how, and so I rarely tried. Our relationship existed in sparse correspondence and our own imaginations.Back then, our relationship wasn’t real.
Would the man who showed up be anything like the one I’d been imagining, and would I be anything like the daughter he thought he had? Would he be proud of me? How were we going to make this relationship — the real one — work? When my dad asked for my number, I wrote it down on the back of a receipt and handed it to him. “Is this your New York number, or your Indiana number?” he asked. I looked up at him and grinned. “There’s no difference between the two, Dad. That number follows me wherever I go.” I wondered if he’d ask me how that worked, but he didn’t. He didn’t really seem to care. All his questions were about me.
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