That night, back in our quiet house, I rolled into his bedroom and looked at the armchair by the window.
I imagined him there, scowling at my tears, pretending he didn’t care while caring more than anyone ever had.
“I know,” I whispered into the stillness. “I know who you are.”
Then I placed my mother’s letter and his together in a small wooden box.
Not a coffin.
Not a secret.
A beginning.
And for the first time since the funeral, the house didn’t feel empty.
It felt like it was finally telling the truth.
