My father was a deacon. He was a pillar of the community. People looked up to him.

But as I looked through the receipts, I saw the patterns. Every time my father got a promotion, the amount in the envelopes went up.

It wasn’t a donation. It was extortion.

My father had been using my mother’s past to bleed that man dry for thirty years.

I walked to the living room and looked at the picture on the mantel. My parents on their wedding day. My mother looked beautiful, but there was a tightness in her smile I had never noticed before.

I walked back into the guest room and picked up the last note, the one that had fallen out of the shoebox. It was dated the day before she died.

“I’m leaving the box for you,” it said. “Not because I want you to hate him, but because you deserve to know why I never left.”

I stared at the wall. The house felt colder now.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this. My father is coming over for dinner tonight. He’s going to sit in his chair, ask me about the house, and tell me how proud he is of me for clearing everything out.

I looked at the shoebox. I looked at the receipt.

I think I might just leave them right where they are.

I wonder what happens if I show them to him. I wonder if he’ll even try to lie.

I hear his truck pulling into the driveway now. The gravel crunches under the tires, the same sound it has made for forty years.

I take a deep breath.

I haven’t decided yet.

Maybe I’ll just see what he says when I ask him about the church pantry.