It was small, but somehow he noticed it on the busy, snow-covered sidewalk. He picked it up and brushed off some dirty snow, revealing a picture of a woman and a baby with a note attached with a paperclip. The woman smiled brightly, holding the baby who dozed on her right shoulder. On her finger, a ring sparkled. The note read, “I love you… and I’ll miss you always.” He stared down at the note and photo, his eyebrows knitted together, and his warm breath fogging up his glasses. With trembling fingers, he slipped the photo and note into his jacket pocket and disappeared again into the crowded street. 

When he got home, he neatly placed his shoes next to the door. Taking off his jacket, he gripped the photograph, covering it with his hand, and put his jacket on the hook. He walked down the entryway and passed the door to the kitchen, where he could hear the banging of pots and pans. 

He went upstairs, passed the landing, and went up another flight of stairs to the attic, stepping over the junk that had accumulated over the many years he and his family had lived in this house. In the attic, he pulled the chain next to the dim light bulb and surveyed the dusty things around him. 

There were old toys that his children had long stopped using, tucked away in plastic storage bins. He saw his daughter’s old doll, still in pristine condition. Carefully, he placed the note and photograph next to his children’s old things. Then he walked back downstairs, shutting off the light as he went.  “Dinner is ready!” his wife, Samantha, called. 

He walked into the kitchen and sat down at the wooden table and took off his glasses. 

With a small smile, he said, “It looks delicious. Thank you for making dinner.” 

“Of course.” 

Silence descended upon them as they took the first few bites of their dinner. He took a few bites of his chicken, swallowing each bite with a sip of water. He nibbled at the green beans politely, but didn’t eat many. Samantha, noticing the remnants of the dinner on his plate, asked if he would like something else instead. “No, no, I’m fine,” he insisted, and they continued to eat in silence. 

After dinner, he retreated to the living room and switched on the heater, for it was always slightly drafty. He sat down and turned on the lamp next to his chair.  His gaze briefly paused on a photo from his wedding day. It had been an unusually warm day for late May, and the sun shone brightly, illuminating the ring as he slipped it onto Sam's finger. In the photo, Sam smiled next to him in her white dress, while he smiled too, his arm around her.

 Now, he reached past the photo to get his book, The Paris Library. Opening the book, he read quietly, glancing up only briefly to notice Samantha putting up some Christmas tinsel on the mantel. At 11:04, Samantha kissed the top of her husband’s head softly, who had long fallen asleep reading, then went upstairs to bed. 

The next day, he went upstairs again to the attic. He walked over to the photograph of the young woman and child and allowed himself to stare at it. He noticed how her head bent slightly over the baby made her deep brown hair tickle her baby’s nose and how the baby reached up its hand, as if to touch its mother’s hair and he noticed the way the mother’s same smile was mirrored in her baby’s. He looked at the note on the back of the card and rubbed his fingers over the blue ink, thinking of the man writing those words. Where did he go? 

His questions took him back to when he was a young man, too and when his children were young. 

He remembered the birth of his first born, his daughter, Eloise. He remembered the small weight of her in his arms when he held her for the first time and the way her screams and cries filled everyone with relief, but left him with anxiety. He remembered the goo and blood that covered her and stuck to his hands. When he gave Eloise back to Samantha, he immediately washed his hands. 

 He placed the photograph of the mother and child back down and left the attic. He walked down the hallway and stairs, being careful to skip over the creaky step.  He passed his wife, sitting at the kitchen table doing the crossword, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and continued to the front entryway. He put on his jacket, hat, and shoes. He then stepped into the cold, winter air. 

It had started to snow and the cruel, winter wind whipped at his face. He started walking along the sidewalk, being careful not to bump into the Christmas shoppers and their many bags and boxes tied up with red ribbon. The red ribbon reminded him of the presents he had given to his children before they grew up and moved away. 

He remembered sitting on the couch, watching his children unwrap the presents on the rug. As he sat watching his son, Ryan, and Eloise, he thought about the many hours he spent at work, painstakingly typing away on his computer in his cubicle, when all he could think about was how miserable it was in that office. But when Ryan opened the bike and let out a roar of excitement, he smiled. 

“Yes, yes! Thank you, Santa!” Ryan screamed. Then, he ran over to his parents and hugged them. “I love you so much, Dad,” Ryan whispered, as he hugged his father. He hugged his son back cautiously, saying, “I love you, too,” a tiny pang of guilt slipping into his heart. Then Eloise opened her present, which was a doll wearing a pink dress and a wide smile. She looked at the doll, then at her parents. 

“Umm,” she said, hesitating. “But I like racing cars. Not dolls.” 

He looked back at her, took a sip of his coffee, then replied, “Santa isn’t a wish-granting machine.” His daughter frowned and furrowed her brows. 

“I thought Santa could do anything.” 

Samantha, sitting next to him, shot him a quick glance, before replying to Eloise. 

“Yes, of course Santa can do anything! Daddy wrote a letter to Santa, thinking that you liked dolls. Why don’t you tell Daddy how much you like your dolly?” 

“Thank you for sending Santa a letter saying I liked dolls, Daddy. I love her,” she said with a monotonous tone.  

“Of course, I’m glad you like it,” He said, somewhat bitterly. 

Later when his kids were sleeping, he stayed downstairs in the kitchen with his wife. They sat at the kitchen table, talking softly. “It was a nice Christmas,” Samantha said, earnestly. He looked at her and nodded. 

As Samantha went upstairs to bed, he remained at the table, lost in his thoughts. He remembered traveling with her to Europe. They didn’t have much money, but they decided to go anyway without a concrete plan, laughing with excitement and apprehension at the airport. He remembered how they would often get off work on Fridays, change quickly, then go to a random bar and meet up with friends. He remembered how happy and in love with his wife he was then. He sat there, lost in his thoughts, until at last he went upstairs to bed. 

He was jolted back to the present when he almost bumped into a distracted Christmas shopper. “Sorry,” he said, but the shopper had already hurried away. Noticing the descending darkness, he started to walk back home. 

When he got back home, he took off his outer layers, and then went upstairs to the attic. He walked straight over to the photo and this time immediately turned it to the back. He stared at the words in blue ink, “I love you… and I’ll always miss you.” Staring at the words, a flood of memories came to him, ones that he desperately tried to suppress ever since he first saw the photo, but had been slowly escaping. 

He closed his eyes, and memories of the day after the Christmas when his daughter had gotten the doll came rushing back to him. Very clearly, he saw Samantha, Eloise and Ryan playing a boardgame on the living room floor. He watched them from afar, sitting on the couch. He watched Eloise scream with excitement when she won a round and danced around the living room. He smiled at her, but as soon as his daughter looked away, he let the smile slide off his face as he looked down. As he sat on the couch, an idea that had once been a fantasy, became more realistic. He rubbed his wedding ring on his hand, as he thought about a future away from his family. He imagined leaving one night, leaving only a note behind. In the note, he would write how terribly sorry he was, how much he loved them, but he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t be a father. He couldn’t be married to his wife anymore; she had changed too much. But what he wouldn’t, or couldn’t write, was where he was going and what he was going to do. He couldn’t explain it clearly, he only knew that he couldn’t do it anymore. 

Under the dim light of a lamp late that night, he sat down to write his note, but his pen sat idle, refusing to write the words he had recited in his head all day. He sighed heavily and then tossed his pen on his desk, clattering on the blank piece of paper. He promised himself he would write his note tomorrow. Later, he thought. Later he would be free. 

But “later” never came and now, as an old man, he stared at the photo of the woman and her baby. He thought of his past reflected in that photo and note, wondering what might have been.