When my parents divorced, the world I knew split clean down the middle. Everyone kept asking who I wanted to live with, as if a child could simply choose between two hearts. In the end, I stayed with my dad. He cooked my favorite meals, drove me to school, and always made sure I felt safe.
My mom, however, never forgave me. At least, that’s how it felt.
Every birthday she missed, every curt phone call, every awkward holiday—each one carved a little more distance between us. I’d ask my dad, “Why is she so angry with me? What did I do wrong?” He’d ruffle my hair gently and say the same quiet words every time: “One day you’ll understand.”
I didn’t understand. Not when I was twelve. Not when I was eighteen. And certainly not the day I stood at my dad’s funeral, clutching a folded program with trembling hands, wishing I had just one more chance to ask him again.
A week later, his lawyer called me into his office. He slid a plain white envelope across the desk.
“This is from your father,” he said softly.
My name was written on the front in my dad’s familiar, steady handwriting. Inside, I found a stack of receipts—rent payments, utility bills, medical invoices—each one bearing my mother’s address. They went back years.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at. Why would my dad keep all this?
Then I found the small handwritten note tucked between the pages.
