We met later that week. There was no confrontation, no tension—just two people trying to move forward honestly. She brought the letter, and when I held it, his handwriting felt like a familiar echo from every birthday card he’d ever signed. Reading his words myself was grounding. It reminded me that showing up matters, even when you think no one notices.
That day marked a turning point. We talked about him—his stubborn streak, his dry humor, his old-fashioned ways. We shared stories he never knew we’d each heard. In a strange way, the letter had built a bridge between us, one he probably hoped we’d cross after he was gone.
