My hands were trembling so badly that I dropped half my clothes. The guest room looked like a storm had blown through it. I barely made it to the women’s shelter.
I was exhausted, swollen, and trying not to sob in front of the staff. As I dragged my suitcases into the room they offered, one of the bags ripped open. Clothes spilled out, and so did a manila envelope.
I froze. It was the envelope Dad had given me, and somehow, I had forgotten all about it. My heart started racing as I picked it up, fingers trembling.
I had no idea back then that it would change everything. I remembered it clearly. It was about a month before Dad passed.
We were sitting on the porch, sharing tea. The sun was low, painting the sky with soft gold. He looked tired but peaceful, like he knew something I didn’t.
Out of nowhere, he pulled a thick manila envelope from under his coat. “Em,” he said, handing it to me with both hands, “don’t open this until I’m gone.”
I stared at it, confused. “What is it?”
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