I stopped reading.
Anger rose inside me.
Why couldn’t he have explained himself while he was alive?
Why had he allowed me to spend years believing that I was nothing more than an inconvenience under his roof?
I put the letter down and opened the first envelope.
Inside was a bank receipt.
The amount was $250.
The date matched the first rent payment I’d made after turning eighteen.
I opened another envelope.
Another $250.
Then another.
Every envelope contained a record of my payments, carefully preserved for five years.
“That money wasn’t spent,” Frank said.
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
He nodded toward the folder.
“Your father asked me to help him organize everything a few years ago. He made me promise I wouldn’t tell you.”
My hands began trembling as I opened the folder.
The first document was a statement from a savings account.
