I left the bank that day, but I didn’t go home. I went to the address written on the final letter in the stack. I stood outside a house that looked hauntingly like my own childhood home, my hand trembling as I reached for the doorbell.

I didn’t know if I was about to meet a friend, a stranger, or an enemy. But as the door began to creak open, I knew that the “I’m sorry” written on that photograph was no longer just a ghost from the past. It was the beginning of my new reality.