The day after my father died, the following announcement appeared in the press: “Author Yaakov Shabtai died of a heart attack at his home in Tel Aviv. He is survived by his wife and two daughters, both students”. I was just eight months old at the time, but the news item didn’t recognize my existence. Whoever wrote it probably preferred not to mention that the late author had another daughter, born to a woman with whom he was romantically involved while married. Years later, I set out in search of my father, following the milestones that marked his life and the words he wrote. I wanted to put together a portrait of him and understand his relationship with my mother. And I wanted to understand my own identity, as his daughter born out of wedlock. A film about love, memory and the dim boundary between life and art.
