I know when your memory started

I know when your memory started. Months before you could share it with me. Months before you could use it to negotiate, to tell me I was wrong, to hold me to my word. And I know you know I lied to you in those months. Hundreds of times. Thousands. It was easy, and it was weak, and the knowledge of it burns in me.

I learned about your memory in September last year. We came back to our June holiday destination. You remembered everything. You knew your Tito and Tita had been there. You noticed how our house differed from the prior one. You looked for the Drachen and told me they were missing.

I know you. I know the weight words carry for you. In these months, I would go back on my word. Tell you we would go to the playground and then, when it was easy, quietly buy groceries. You would smile and play with me. I did not notice you were hurt.

Your face when, in September, your best friend said no to your Bist du mein Freund? I told you he cared for you. You would not accept my word for it. I told you what mattered was that you cared for him, and that was true. You heard me, but it was not enough. It took a while for things to get better. What brought back your smile was him, his saying he was your friend.

I cannot remember when I lied. But I still feel the shame I felt when I learned you could remember where we spent holidays with your Titos. I hurt you, and I did not know how, and I could not undo it. I am afraid you will carry this as much as the certainty of where the cows graze.

You did not choose to be my daughter. I chose to be your father. I choose it now. I will choose it forever. For every mistake, I learn how to be better. But my last mistake is far, far in the future. I lied to you about things I cannot name. I lied before you could tell me you knew. I am sorry.