My hands were shaking as I stepped out of the car, still wearing my graduation gown.
Then the front door opened.
My son Daniel stood in the doorway.
The same son who hadn’t spoken to me in three years.
Behind him, I could see my other son, Paul.
And cousins.
Neighbors.
Faces I hadn’t seen since my wife’s funeral.
“Dad,” Daniel said.
His voice was different.
Quieter than I remembered.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t know what to say.
“We owe you an apology,” he said.
“A real one.”
I searched his face for something — anger, resentment, the coldness I had gotten used to.
But it wasn’t there.
Then Paul stepped forward and held something out toward me.
A framed photograph.
My wife, smiling, on the day we got married.
“She wrote us a letter,” Paul said.
“We only found it last month.
She wrote it before she passed.”
