On Friday, I mailed a card to a woman I’ll call L who was in my life for only a couple of years when I was a teenager. She dated my dad and briefly lived with us until they went their separate ways. I liked her. She took me to the local beauty school to get my hair highlighted by beauticians in training. The first trip went well; I left with just a few strips of caramel-colored streaks in my dark hair. The second trip things went a bit too far—I left with a lot more chunks of too-light color for my hair. The hard water at my house tinged it red. A classmate referred to it with a racial slur when I returned to school. I think my mom thought it looked terrible and was irritated that this woman would take it upon herself to introduce me to such alterations. When L left (and I should note she always had her own house, and simply stayed with us because she wanted to while she was dating dad), I remember sitting at the dining room table, in one of my bad moods with her departure being the source. My dad asked me what was up. I can’t remember my exact words when I responded, but I know this was the gist of it: What is wrong with you? Why does everyone leave you? I am mortified to remember I said some version of this to him. I was angry L had left. I was angry my mom had left.

I don’t really recall his response. I don’t remember him being angry; he was not one to get angry often, and I don’t think a smart ass remark from his teen-aged daughter would have bothered him a great deal. He may have even sensed that this was coming from a place of my own hurt. When I think deeply on the scenario, he may have said something along the lines of things don’t always work out. In hindsight I realize their relationship was never that serious. They were never going to marry. They were never going to join families. He and she may have known that all along, but I saw her as a partner for my dad so he wouldn’t have to be alone. I don’t think that was a concern for him then, and a few years later he met and moved in with the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.

I ran into L last year when I was leaving the hospital in my hometown after seeing my uncle who had been recently diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. My aunt saw her first and said Hey, there’s L. I could scarcely believe my eyes. She looked exactly the same but older—like everyone. It may have been more than 20 years since I saw her last. I told her where I lived and what I did. When she asked about my brother, I broke the news that he had died from pancreatic cancer. She said she had looked for me on Facebook; I used an alias on the site so was not easy to find, and since our conversation last year, I’ve deleted the account. I had told her I would find her on FB and we connected right before I made the decision to move away from FB completely.

Recently, however, a memory came to me of a conversation we had all those years ago, when I was around 14 or 15. I was absolutely mad about the 60’s group The Doors. Completely consumed with Jim Morrison and his legacy. Morrison died in 1971 and was buried in Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. I had a collection of books themed around Jim Morrison and a paperback travel guide about Paris was part of it . I remember being in the living room talking with her and holding the Paris book. Maybe you’ll go there one day, L said to me. Reader, she may as well have said maybe you’ll go to the moon one day. That is how unlikely leaving the country seemed to me. Basically unfathomable. In rural Ohio, on a dirt road, surrounded by dense woods, no money, not old enough to drive, picturing a life beyond that place seemed impossible. But L buried that small seed of idea in my brain back then, and it wasn’t until recently, with a tiny bit of world travel under my belt (but not yet to Paris) did I realize that she may have been the first person to ever propose the wild notion that I could fly across the ocean and see the places I read about. In the card I sent her I thanked her for that.