It was white, a little bent and sealed with transparent duct tape. On his face, my father had written my name in big letters.
“FOR SARAH. ONLY IF NECESSARY.”
Under the name there was a date.
Almost six months ago.
My stomach tightened. My father had prepared the envelope long before that evening. He hadn’t written it in a hurry, scared of the ambulance. He kept him close, probably waiting for a moment where he could trust him.
I carefully unwrapped the duct tape.
Inside were three things: a small, silver key, an old photo and a letter folded in four.
I took out the photo first.
It was done in a courtyard, in front of a house I didn’t recognize. Dad seemed a lot younger, maybe thirty years. He held a little girl in her arms for about four years, with chest hair trapped in two tails. Next to him stood a blonde woman, who was smiling at the camera.
