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CALIFORNIA, 2011

The brown envelope goads me from the doormat, its postmark clearly overseas. The thought that, after all this time, across all those miles, a part of my father is this close to me makes me feel simultaneously anxious and comforted.

I’m immediately taken back to the last time I saw him, twenty-five years ago, as he shuffled into that courtroom. Having not seen him for six months, I remember being haunted by his gaunt and unkempt appearance. He was always a man of pride—proud to wear his Sunday best on every day of the week—but his suit was creased and two sizes too big for him, hanging listlessly from his prominent bones because there wasn’t any flesh to cling to.

He’d looked at me with pleading eyes, as if silently begging me for forgiveness, but I didn’t have the capacity to forgive anyone, least of all myself.

Had I known then that I would never see him again? And if I had, would I have done anything differently? I often think about that moment—about all the moments—when I saw the people in my life for the last time without knowing it; those final words, that last look, that parting touch, which I wouldn’t realize until years later was the ultimate goodbye. Would I have held on tighter to my father for a little while longer? Would I have found it easier to forgive my little sister? Even now, after all this time, and after everything that went on, I still struggle to comprehend how the loving family I’d grown up surrounded by could be torn apart in such a spectacular fashion. But I guess killing someone can do that.

Still unmoving, I stare at the letter, wishing I had X-ray vision so that my eyes could preview its contents before my brain has a chance to be crushed by its lamentable words. In the twenty-four hours I’ve had to ruminate on what my father might have to say, I’ve realized that, good or bad, it can only hurt. If he shares his deep sorrow and regret that life has passed without us having a chance to reconcile, it’ll wrench my heart and soul out. And if he spews hate and resentment, blaming me for the breakdown of our once-perfect family, I won’t be surprised, but it will still cut deep. Though, if he hated me that much, why would he have left me his estate?

I edge forward, leaning down heavily to pick it up. It feels like a grenade in my hand, and I throw it onto the console table as if it’s about to explode. Perhaps it’s all a test, an elaborate ruse to smoke me out. Perhaps my father isn’t dead at all, and it’s a sick game to extract something I’m not prepared to give.

The conspiracy theories abound as I take deep breaths in and out, questioning what’s the worst that could happen if I didn’t open it at all. I’ve lived without his thoughts and influence for twenty-five years, so why do I need either now? And it’s not as if anything he says can possibly change the course of my life. But perhaps I already know that there’s a chance it just might—and that’s what I’m most terrified of.

My hands are trembling, and I still my breath as I gingerly open it, half expecting my father himself to jump out. There’s another en velope inside, its contents protected by a wax seal, with my maiden name on the front. It’s unmistakably my father’s spidery writing, and an involuntary sob escapes from deep within my chest as my finger traces the ink that ran from the pen he once held.

There are only two pages, so whatever he has to say, it’s not much. But as I start to read, I’m immediately aware that the weight of his words more than make up for the weight of the paper.

Dearest Nicole,

I couldn’t leave this world without telling you how sorry I am for the decisions I made when I was here. The consequences of my actions have followed me for my entire life—losing you as a daughter has certainly been the most costly.

All I ever wanted to do was protect my girls—and if you’re now a mother yourself, you’ll understand that.

Being a parent is tough, and although I didn’t always get it right, I want you to know that I never stopped loving you, and truly believed that we’d see each other one last time. But if you’re reading this, I guess that didn’t happen, so this is my final chance to say what needs to be said.

There isn’t a day that’s gone by when I haven’t thought about Ben, and what I did to him. If I could turn back the clock, believe me, I would, but in a moment of madness, I made a terrible mistake for which I have never been able to forgive myself. And I don’t expect you to forgive me now. But I need you to know why I did it, because to go to my grave without telling you would be even more indefensible than the act itself…

I read on, because I have to, but the words have all jumbled themselves up so that nothing he says is making any sense. I close my eyes, forcing deep breaths in and out in an effort to stay calm, but my heart is racing and I feel so instantaneously sick that I have to rush to open the back door. I can’t breathe, my lungs only half filling before collapsing again as I remember Ben—his smoldering eyes staring out at me from behind his guitar, that stomach-churning excitement that set my skin alight when he held me in his arms, the smell of him, even the thrill of the secret we were hiding in those sweet short weeks when we dared to believe it was going to be forever.

Bitter injustice rips through me and, as I fall to my knees, I vow to do what I should have done twenty-five years ago: tell the truth.