My 5-year-old daughter said to me, “Mom, when it’s time for sleep at Grandpa’s house, she calls me to her room, asks me to close my eyes and we play a secret game. But he told me I couldn’t tell you.” I was paralyzed. The next day, I sneaked into my father's bedroom and what I discovered caused my legs to shake.

Abrió la primera página.

Había fotografías mías de cuando era pequeña.

En las siguientes aparecía mi madre cuando era joven.

Después venían las fotografías de aquella niña cuya existencia yo desconocía por completo.

Y finalmente, imágenes recientes de mi Emily.

Dos vidas diferentes.

Dos niñas.

El mismo nombre.

Y el amor infinito del mismo abuelo.

“During our game,” my father continued, “Emily closes her eyes and I put a little object in her hand. Sometimes it's an old photograph inside an envelope. Other times, a tape or small toy. She's trying to guess what it is. Then I tell you the story behind that object and decide together which page of the album you should go on.

I remembered my daughter's words.

“He tells me to close his eyes and not open them until he allows me to.”