She'd fallen asleep reading them.  It was the middle of the night, and I woke up thirsty.  I found my mother sprawled out on the couch, covered in postcards.  The wooden box was on the floor, more postcards were spilling out.  As quietly as I could, I gathered them up, trying not to wake her.  I guessed that she didn't want anyone reading them.  I carried the box to the kitchen and sat down to spend the rest of the night reading.  I was going to find him.

Africa.  That's where most of the postcards had come from, including the last one, the previous month.  I couldn't quite figure out why my father was even writing my mom, but it seemed like he was angry with her.  He never said why, but I asssumed she had done something wrong.  I was dying to know, but it would have been useless to ask her.  Some uncontrollable urge came over me then, and I wasn't thinking straight.  I suddenly felt so mad, at both of them, for tearing our happy family apart.  I could have grown up differently with him there for me.  I needed to know everything, so I could move on with my life.  I booked a trip to Africa that same morning.  I must have been crazy.

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