On the back of the photograph were written three names.
“Daniel, Rebecca and Emily. Summer of 2001.”
Daniel was a father.
But who were Rebecca and Emily?
I tried to remember where I had lived that summer. I was five years old. As far as I knew, my parents had been married for seven years and had lived in the same house where my mother was still alive. I’d never heard the name Rebecca. And I didn’t know anything about an Emily.
I opened the letter.
“Sarah, if you’re reading this, it means I haven’t been able to keep things under control. Before anything else I want you to know that I love you. There is nothing in my life that I am prouder of than being your father.”
They gave me tears. I continued.
“I know I’ve let you down many times. I know I didn’t take care of my health and that I let your mother carry too many worries. But there’s one thing I could never say, because I was ashamed of my own choices.’
