Part Seven: Dad’s Final Unsent Letter
When I returned to Dad’s apartment, the rooms seemed even quieter than before.
I placed the grocery bag on the kitchen table.
As it collapsed, I noticed a thin envelope trapped beneath one of its folds.
It was addressed to my mother.
There was no stamp.
Dad had never mailed it.
The date showed that he had written it shortly before his cancer diagnosis.
“Sally,
Simone has grown into a strong and compassionate woman.
She is kinder than either of us deserved.
I have decided to tell her everything. She may be furious with me, and she will have every right to be.
But she deserves the truth more than I deserve her forgiveness.”
I sat at the table until the sunlight faded from the windows.
For years, I had believed Dad kept the secret because he was certain he had done the right thing.
The letter showed me something different.
He had known he was wrong.
He had planned to tell me.
He had simply been afraid for too long.
I looked at his empty chair.
“I’m angry with you,” I whispered.
The apartment gave me no answer.
“But I understand why you were scared.”
Understanding did not erase the hurt.
It only gave the hurt somewhere to rest.
