Something he believed could affect my marriage enough that he expected accusations before he even revealed it.
I did not know whether those fears were justified.
I did not know what the documents said.
I did not know what kind of test he had needed or why an attorney was involved.
And I refused to invent answers simply because the questions frightened me.
Dad had asked me to trust him long enough to get proof.
So that was what I had to do.
At the hospital, the corridor felt like the last place in the world where I wanted to solve a family mystery.
My father was somewhere beyond those doors in surgery.
Every other question should have felt secondary.
But the envelope made that impossible.
This was something he had chosen to arrange while facing an emergency serious enough that he might not be able to explain it himself afterward.
