The Father I Don't Know

     I’m the blondie in the stroller with my sister, pushed by the father I don’t know.     
     Early one morning my mom came into my sister’s and my bedroom with red eyes. She handed us tiny cups of grape juice and quietly announced, “Daddy’s in Heaven with Jesus.”
    The night before at age thirty-nine, he’d slumped over from a sudden sharp headache and died. A brain aneurism, we think.     Ask me my age then, and I would have held up five fingers.     
     Ask me today how many memo...