Inside the box was an old leather folder I recognized from childhood. It held papers I had never bothered to ask about—documents worn thin at the edges, neatly arranged the way he used to organize everything. On top lay a letter written in his careful handwriting.
He explained that when I was young, he worked long hours not because he wanted to be away, but because he had little choice. After my mother passed, he promised himself that his four children would never go without a home, food, or the chance to dream. He apologized for the nights he wasn’t there, the school recitals he missed, the exhaustion that made him seem distant.
