For as long as I could remember, it had always been just my father and me. There were no photographs of my mother, no bedtime stories about her, and no explanation for why she was missing. Dad worked long hours but still cooked dinner, helped with homework, and somehow made our small home feel complete. When other children talked about their mothers, I stayed quiet. Eventually, though, the questions became impossible to ignore.
At seventeen, I finally refused to let the subject disappear again. After dinner, I sat across from Dad and told him I needed the truth. He stared at me for several long seconds before putting down his phone. Without saying anything, he walked to a kitchen drawer and removed a small envelope I had never seen before. He placed it carefully in front of me. “Before I explain anything,” he said quietly, “you need to read this.” My hands shook as I opened it—and recognized the first words: My dear child…
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