the words until they blurred.
My father had been planning something.
Something serious enough that he didn’t trust his own wife.
Something big enough that he believed my life—my entire conviction—was tangled in it.
At the bottom, he wrote:
I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I let you carry what should never have been yours to carry.
I love you.
—Dad
The letter slipped in my fingers.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the key taped to the storage card like it was a map to a
