Father sent me an email the other day.
“I hope all is well with you and Clara. Your mother tells me you two are learning to tango. That’s nice, although a tad out of place for Vietnam. Don’t they have their own dancing? I’ve sent the money for this month. Reply if you have a problem using the account again.
Yours,
Dad”
I didn’t bother even telling Clara this time. She was at the movies with her new local boytoy when I received it. And after that I just forgot. Maybe every two months he sends an email with the money. They’re usually longer than that, he asks about Clara’s studies in secondary school, and mine at university. Of course there’s never a response to our response, but he at least asks. The last time I saw my mother she mentioned things weren’t going well at his firm.
“To this day, he hasn’t apologized.” she added on after half a minute of silence at the quietest cafe we could find.
“I know.” was all I could get out. I didn’t know how to talk with her like I did with Clara. Always afraid something I’d say would be a rock to already-cracked glass, I usually just hoped my voice alone was enough to remind her of other times. I suppose it doesn’t matter. If it were, there are louder sounds even in the quietest cafe.
The account worked just fine when I bought a new backpack at the mall, so I didn’t reply.
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