a punch, because they were so plain.
I didn’t come to visit you, and I know that pain is going to sit in your chest like a stone. I need you to hear this: it wasn’t because I stopped loving you.
I was scared. I was ashamed. And I was being watched in my own house.
Being watched.
My skin prickled.
The letter continued, and with every sentence, my father’s voice came through—steady, practical, like he was building something out of words.
There are things you don’t know about why
