The repair shop smelled like dust and old fabric when I pushed through the door. The man who had called me stood beside my father’s sagging couch, pale, hands trembling.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said. “But the lining was already torn.”
Foam spilled onto the floor. Springs jutted out like ribs. And in the hollow space beneath the seat cushions, there was a metal box.
My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear the click as he opened it.
Inside were envelopes. Dozens of them. Each one had my name written in my father’s uneven handwriting.
I sank onto a stool.
The first letter was dated five years ago.
I know your sister thinks you’re the disappointment, he wrote. But you’re the bravest of us. You walked away from a life that was hurting you. I was never strong enough to say that out loud.
My vision blurred.
Under the letters were documents. Bank statements. A key. The deed to a small cabin two hours away—signed over to me.
At the bottom was one last note.
I couldn’t fight anymore. So I hid what I could save for you where she’d never look. Forgive me.
For the first time since he died, I cried without shame.
He hadn’t left me nothing.
He had left me the truth.
