“Hi,” I whispered to the image. It felt silly—and right.
Then I turned the page.
There was a photo of Dad outside the hospital, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in pale fabric. Me.
He looked terrified and proud at the same time.
I wanted that photo.
As I gently slid it from its sleeve, something else slipped out—a folded sheet of paper.
My name was written on the front in Dad’s handwriting.
My fingers trembled as I unfolded it.
It was dated the day before he died.
I read it once. Tears blurred the ink.
I read it again—and my heart didn’t just ache. It shattered.
I had always been told the accident happened in the late afternoon, that he was driving home from work like any other day.
But the letter said otherwise.
He hadn’t simply been “driving home.”
“No,” I whispered. “No… no.”
I folded the paper and went downstairs.
Meredith was at the kitchen table helping my brother with homework. The moment she saw my face, her smile vanished.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarm rising in her voice.
I held out the letter, my hand shaking.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her gaze dropped to the letter, and the blood drained from her face.
“Where did you get that?” she asked quietly.