I don’t feel disbelief. Or confusion.
I feel irritation.
No one gets to claim me like this.
Our father, Robert, never told you about me. He tells people a lot of things now—about regret, about accountability, about becoming a better man—but he’s very selective with the truth.
I swallow.
My father’s name sits in my chest like a bruise I pretend isn’t there.
He’s been careful. Quiet. Rebranded—just like the rest of us. He volunteers now. Goes to meetings. Talks about harm andhealing like they’re concepts he learned instead of habits he practiced.
The letter keeps going.
I don’t blame him for hiding me. I imagine it was easier. He’s always chosen the path of least resistance. You know that better than anyone.
I set the page down.
I don’t like the way she’s talking to me.
Not accusatory. Not aggressive.
Familiar.
I pick it back up.
He hurt people, Shae.
Not just emotionally.
Not just “in the ways men do.”
Real harm. The kind that leaves records if you know where to look—and silence if you don’t.
My pulse ticks once, sharp.
She doesn’t say what kind of harm.
She doesn’t need to.
He’s making amends now. Playing the role of a man who learned his lesson late in life.
But if justice were honest, he’d be where you were.
And maybe where I still am.
Something clicks into place.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She’s good.
I keep reading.
I could tell the media everything.
