The jacket offered no response, but I could almost hear him say, “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there.”
I wiped my eyes and kept searching. Then I saw it: a worn-out leather bag tucked behind a stack of old books. My breath hitched. I knew this bag.
My chest tightened as I unfolded it, my vision blurring as I read:
“We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!”
A sob escaped my lips before I could stop it.
“You never got to see me pass them,” I cried, clutching the note to my heart. “You never knew I did it, Dad. I passed with flying colors, just like you always said I would.”
My voice broke as I whispered, “Were you watching from somewhere? Did you see me walk across that stage? Did you see what I became?”
I knew exactly what was inside the bag now.
Our old game console.
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