I know there will be questions I should have answered long ago. Some will be about Veronica. Some will be about my family. Most will be about the choices I made while trying to keep you safe.
I wish I could tell you that I made those choices perfectly. I did not.
I tried to be a good father, but I confused providing for you with being present for you. I believed that if you had a secure home, good clothes, and every opportunity, then you would not notice how often I was afraid.
You noticed.
I’m sorry.
I stopped reading and pressed my lips together.
My father had always apologized in practical ways. He would replace a broken toy, fix my bicycle, or take me for ice cream after missing a school event. He rarely said the words themselves.
Now they covered the page.
I read on.
There are things I cannot explain fully in this letter because they involve other people’s private struggles. But I want you to know this: if Veronica tells you that I left everything to her, she is mistaken. I made provisions for her because I did not want her to be abandoned. I also made provisions for you because you are my son, and because your future must not depend on the goodwill of anyone who is frightened.
