He walks us to the door. Hugs my son awkwardly. Doesn’t try with me—but his eyes say everything.
As we walk back to the car, I glance at my son. “You sure about this?”
That night, I go through an old box buried in my closet. I pull out the hospital bracelet from my son’s birth. A drawing he made in second grade. And an unopened envelope I’d never dared to open. My name is on the front. My father’s handwriting.
Inside is a letter. Dated the week after I left.
My sweet girl,
I didn’t know how to be a father when you needed me most. I only knew how to be afraid. I’m sorry I let that fear make me cruel. You are brave, and you are good. If I ever find the courage, I hope you’ll let me tell you these things in person. If not, please know this—wherever you are, I love you. Always.
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