Afterwards I feel like a towel that has been wrung out by a sumo wrestler. My hands shake as I refold the letters. There had been one to my dad which didn’t reveal much more than I already knew, and in which she had explained that she would leave it up to him what to share with me. And there had also been an entire letter to me. That letter read almost like a journal of her time in the past as a teenager, almost as if she knew I would need a deeply personal offering to help me get past the rage and resentment that I would feel at being lied to and left behind. 

And it worked. Sort of. 

Reading her thoughts, and the deep parallel between my current situation and the one she found herself in at my age did soothe me a bit.

I bow my head for a moment and...

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