He was trying to protect the truth from becoming another family argument.
Whatever he knew, he wanted evidence attached to it.
Maybe that was why he feared being called confused.
Maybe that was why he worried about being accused of interfering in my marriage.
Those were possibilities, not answers, and Dad had been careful enough to know the difference.
So I needed to be careful too.
I looked down at the envelope again.
Dad’s handwriting was familiar in a way that suddenly made my chest ache.
Those were the same rough hands that had worked construction for decades.
The same hands that had sold things he owned so I could have opportunities he never talked about giving me.
The same hands that had trembled when I placed $1,000 into them three days earlier.
