I hope one day, long after I’m gone, you can find it in your heart to forgive the man I had to pretend to be.” I sat alone in the sweltering heat of my dead father’s attic, clutching the leather book to my chest, and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.

I cried for the man who died alone in a silent house.

I cried for the thirteen-year-old girl who thought she wasn’t enough. And I cried for the terrifying realization that the mother waiting for me back home, the woman I had worshipped my entire life, was the architect of it all.

I haven’t called my mother yet. I’m just sitting here in his armchair, reading his words over and over, trying to meet my father for the very first time.