One letter for every year he raised me.
I opened the first one, then the next. His handwriting filled each page, steady and unmistakable. He wrote about watching me grow into myself. About worrying when I got too quiet. About how becoming my father had been the greatest privilege of his life.
Not responsibility.
Privilege.
At the bottom of the box lay a copy of the will.
Everything was divided equally. Between his two biological children.
And me.
The lawyer told me he’d made that decision years ago. He had never wavered. He had never felt the need to justify it.
