But the nostalgic smile I was expecting to feel died on my face before it could even form. My breath caught sharply in my throat. The handwriting on the page wasn’t mine. It was his. The slanted, unmistakable scrawl of my father’s handwriting filled the pages.

I gasped, dropping the book onto the dusty floorboards as if it had burned my hands. My heart began to hammer violently in my chest. Why did he have my diary? How long had he been reading it? With trembling fingers, I reached down and picked the notebook back up.

I turned to the page where my teenage entries had stopped—the day I moved out of the house for good. Right beneath my final, angry sign-off, his handwriting began. October 14th. You left for college today. I watched you pack your car from the window.

I wanted to come down and help you, but I knew you wouldn’t want me there. You wrote in here yesterday that I ruined your life. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so incredibly sorry. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I frantically flipped to the next page.

And the next. My father hadn’t just kept my diary; he had been writing back to me in it for years. Dozens and dozens of entries, dated perfectly over the last decade, filling the blank pages I had left behind. May 22nd. I saw you graduate today.

You looked so beautiful. You looked just like her. I sat in the back so I wouldn’t ruin your photos. I know you hate me, and I accept that. But I am so proud of you. I was openly sobbing now, the silence of the attic broken by my ragged breathing.

I flipped toward the very back of the diary, the pages crinkling under my tear-stained hands. Glued to the inside of the back cover was a thick, folded envelope. My hands shook so badly I could barely pry it open. Inside was a stack of papers and a single, handwritten letter.

I unfolded the letter. If you are reading this, I’m gone. And I’m sorry to leave you with this burden. I promised myself I would take the truth to my grave, to protect you. But I am weak, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you hating me forever without knowing why.

I stopped breathing. I put the letter down and looked at the stack of papers he had tucked behind it. They were copies of bank statements, hotel receipts, and emails printed out from years ago. They were all in my mother’s name. I forced my eyes back to his letter.

My father wasn’t the monster I thought he was. I never cheated on your mother, the letter read. She was the one who strayed. For years, she struggled with an addiction she kept hidden from everyone, draining our savings to fund a secret life. When the money ran out, she found a man who could provide it for her.