Every first date happened at the same Italian restaurant across town.

And every woman disappeared afterward.

No second date. No explanation. Most wouldn’t even answer Dad’s calls.

When the seventh woman canceled plans to see him again, I’d had enough.

I drove to the restaurant alone.

The waitress recognized the photo on my phone immediately.

“Oh. Tom.”

“You’ve served him before?”

Her expression changed.

“Several times.”

“Then please tell me. What does he do to these women?”

She stared at me. “Your father? Nothing.”

That wasn’t the answer I’d expected.

She glanced toward the kitchen, then lowered her voice.

“It’s what happens when they ask for the check.”

She led me to a corner booth.

“Your father always sits here. Same table. Same chair.”

Then she pointed at the wall behind it.

The wall was covered with photographs from opening night in 1987. Dozens of smiling people stood beneath strings of lights.

Years later, Dad had added one of his own. In it, three young people stood together.

Dad was near the back. So was Mom.

But beside them stood another young woman whose face had been scratched almost completely away.

My stomach tightened.

“Who is she?”

The waitress didn’t answer.

Instead, she reached beneath the booth and pulled out a small envelope taped underneath.

My name was written across the front.

“Rachel.”

I froze. “How long has that been there?”

“Your father puts a new one here before every date.”

Before I could touch it, someone behind me said, “Please don’t open that.”

I turned.

The woman standing beside the bar looked to be in her mid-60s. Silver hair, blue coat, both hands wrapped around a handbag.

I looked from her to the photograph.

Same narrow jaw. Same deep-set eyes.

Even beneath the scratches, I knew it was her.

“You were here last night,” I said.

She nodded.

“You are the woman who canceled on Dad.”

“I was the woman he met. It wasn’t a date.”

The waitress quietly walked away.

I looked at her.

“Then who are you?”

The woman glanced at the photograph. “My name is Helen.”

“How do you know my father?”

“Longer than you’ve been alive.”

“So you were together.”

Helen’s expression barely changed. “No. We never were.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You were standing beside him in 1987. Your face is scratched out. He’s been bringing women here for 18 months, and suddenly you’re sitting across from him.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Then what was it?”

Helen looked at the envelope. “Your father was asking me if eight years was long enough.” She pulled out the chair opposite me and signalled for me to sit.

“No. You can tell me standing.”

She studied me for several seconds.

Then she said, “Your mother chose every woman your father dated.”

I laughed once because the sentence was absurd.

“Mom has been dead eight years.”

“I know.”

“So try again.”

Helen opened her handbag and removed a folded sheet of yellowing paper.

She didn’t hand it to me. She placed it on the table between us.

At the top was Mom’s handwriting.

“Tom,”

“If you’re reading this, you finally ignored me long enough to open the blue box.”

My knees weakened.

I sat.

“There are more,” Helen said.

“More what?”

“Pages.”

“Where?”

“Your father has them.”

I reached for the paper.

Helen pressed her palm over the page between us.

“Rachel, your mother was sick for almost two years before you knew how serious it was.”

I remembered those months.

Mom saying she was tired. Mom refusing vacations. Mom telling me the treatment was working when it wasn’t.

By the time she admitted she was dying, we had 11 weeks.

“You knew?”

Helen nodded.

“Before Dad?”

“Before either of you.”

I pushed back from the table. “You were her doctor?”

“No.”

“Then why would she tell you?”

Helen looked at the ruined photograph.

“Because I was her best friend.”

I almost laughed again.

Mom had never mentioned a Helen.

And neither had Dad.

Not once.

“Best friends don’t scratch each other out of photographs.”

“Usually they don’t.”

I pulled the picture off the wall before she could stop me.

The frame was old, but the scratches weren’t. They cut deep across Helen’s face.

Written on the backing board was one date.

On the back, in Mom’s handwriting, were five words. “Take her off the list.”

I looked at Helen.

“What list?”

She closed her eyes.

“Of women she thought your father should marry afterward.”

I laughed because the alternative was believing her. “Mom made Dad a dating list?”

“Seven names.”

“And he actually used it?”

“Eventually.”

Six women in 18 months. Every one at this restaurant.

My laughter stopped. “Why here?”

“Because this is where your parents met.”

“I know that.”

“It is also where your mother made the list.”

Helen finally lifted her hand from the letter.