On top of the envelopes lay a handwritten note.
“You earned every dollar of this. Don’t waste it the way I wasted my chance.”
I pressed the paper against my chest and stared at the empty screen.
For five years, I’d believed my father was taking away my future, $250 at a time. I’d resented him for making me struggle while he spent money on things he enjoyed. I’d convinced myself that I was nothing more than a responsibility he wanted to turn into a bill.
Now I understood that he’d been saving the money, building a place where I could pursue the dream he’d once abandoned.
But understanding didn’t erase the years of silence. It didn’t give me back the conversations we never had or the encouragement I’d desperately needed as a teenager.
He had loved me. I could finally see that.
