I could have called Madison more often instead of deciding her teasing meant she did not care.
Somewhere along the way, professional discretion had become personal armor.
Mom’s letter continued.
“Your father loves you.
He is also very capable of being foolish.
Both things can be true.”
Dad gave a small, defeated laugh.
“I walked into that one.”
I continued.
“I hope, when the right moment comes, you will give him the opportunity to know you better.
Not because he has earned every detail.
Not because you owe anyone proof of your worth.
But because being known is one of the gifts families can still learn to give one another, even late.”
I stopped reading.
There were still several paragraphs.
But my eyes had blurred.
I placed the letter down.
Madison reached across the table and rested her fingers against mine.
Nobody spoke until Dad said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
