Something serious enough that he didn’t trust his own wife.
Something big enough that he believed my life—my entire conviction—was tangled in it.
At the bottom, he wrote:
I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I let you carry what should never have been yours to carry.
I love you.
—Dad
The letter slipped in my fingers.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the key taped to the storage card like it was a map to a buried world.
The wind moved through the pines.
Somewhere far off, a lawnmower started up.
Life continued, indifferent.
But inside me, something started to wake up.
Not rage.
Not revenge.
Something sharper.
Clarity.
UNIT 108
Westridge Storage sat on the edge of town where the roads widened and the buildings got lower. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it.
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