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.