I was looking for an old photo album with pictures of my parents.
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I sat cross-legged on the floor and flipped through pictures of my dad when he was younger. He looked so happy.
In one photo, he was holding a woman — my biological mother.
"Hi," I whispered.
I felt a little silly talking to a piece of paper, but mostly, it felt right.
Then, I turned another page and stopped. There was a photo of Dad standing outside the hospital. He was holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a pale blanket. Me.
I turned another page and stopped.
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He looked absolutely terrified and incredibly proud all at once.
I wanted that photo.
I carefully slid it out of the plastic sleeve.
As I pulled it free, something else slipped out from behind it. It was a thin piece of paper, folded twice. My name was written on the front in Dad's handwriting.
My hands started shaking as I unfolded the paper.
It was a thin piece of paper, folded twice.
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It was a letter, dated the day before he died.
I read it… Tears ran down my cheeks.
I read it again, and my heart didn't simply break; it shattered.
Dad's accident had happened in the late afternoon. I'd always been told he was just driving home from work. A normal commute. A random event.
But he wasn't just "driving home."
