He handed it over. My father’s hands shook as he opened it. I knew that handwriting—my son’s bold, messy scrawl.
My father looked up, eyes glassy, voice breaking.
“Can… can she come inside?”
For the first time in eighteen years, I saw the tiniest crack in his armor.
And my son—my brave, beautiful son—turned to me and nodded.
“Come on, Mom. It’s time.”
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.