CHAPTER SIX: FRANK
634 Words
The afternoon was unusually quiet when Doris returned from school with her GCE result slip.
Six papers.
She held the envelope against her chest for a moment before entering Mama Rachael’s room.
That room always felt official — files stacked neatly, court documents arranged in labeled envelopes, the faint scent of perfume and paper.
She opened the drawer carefully.
“I did it,” she whispered to herself as she placed the slip among the important documents.
“Not perfect… but I did it.”
As she turned to leave, her elbow brushed against a larger box tucked behind the cabinet.
It fell.
Papers scattered across the tiled floor.
“Oh no…”
She quickly knelt down.
“I can’t leave this like this.”
Neatness was her instinct. Disorder made her uneasy.
So she began gathering the sheets carefully — aligning edges, stacking them the way she had found them.
Then she saw it.
A photograph.
Her hands paused mid-air.
A man stared back at her from the glossy surface.
Not old.
Not smiling.
Serious eyes.
Familiar eyes.
She frowned.
“Who…”
She lifted it closer.
The nose.
The jawline.
The shape of the brows.
Her stomach tightened.
“That looks like me.”
Her fingers trembled as she reached for another paper.
A letter.
The handwriting was firm, slightly slanted.
Even if you won’t let me see her, I hope you talk to her about me…
Her breathing changed.
Another letter.
I heard you are now pregnant with a son. I hope you are fine…
Another.
I hear you had another daughter. How is she? How are you?
The room suddenly felt too small.
She shuffled through more documents.
Court filings.
Stamped copies.
Requests for custody.
Rejected.
Denied.
Delayed.
Then one, written more sharply:
You never let the documents reach the right place. She is mine too. Please. This is wickedness.
Doris slowly sat back on her heels.
The name at the bottom of the page caught her eye.
Frank.
Her lips parted.
“Frank…” she whispered.
The name felt strange.
And powerful.
She flipped to the earliest date.
Seven years ago.
Seven.
Her mind raced.
“He was looking for me?” she murmured.
Tears blurred the ink as she read again.
He had written multiple times.
He had filed documents.
He had asked about her.
He had begged.
Her voice cracked.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She pressed the photograph to her chest, rocking slightly without realizing.
“Frank… is that my father?”
Her chest tightened painfully.
“Did you stop looking?” she whispered. “Or… are you … dead?”
A sudden sound from the parlor froze her.
The gate creaked.
Pa Fong’s voice filled the house.
“Doris! Is my food ready? Where is your mother?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Panic.
Quickly, she gathered the papers.
Aligned them.
Stacked them.
Placed everything exactly as it had been.
All except one.
The photograph.
She slipped it inside her blouse, against her skin.
“Doris!” his voice came again, louder. “Am I not talking to you?”
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and hurried toward her room.
“I… I don’t feel well, Pa,” she called out, her voice strained. “I haven’t cooked. Mama Rachael is still out.”
A long pause.
Then the door opened.
Closed.
Silence.
Only when she was sure he had left did she pull the photograph out again.
She stared at the man for a long time.
“You tried,” she whispered.
For the first time in her life, the emptiness inside her had taken shape.
It had handwriting.
It had court stamps.
It had a name.
Frank.
And nothing would ever feel the same again.
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