I read Dad’s letter again.

His words were simple.

He hadn’t predicted a perfect future, only left me a way to choose one.

On the drive home I cried at a red light because I wished he could meet Miles.

I imagined him carrying the baby around a workshop, explaining each tool as though an eight-week-old could understand.

Dad had always been patient with questions.

That evening I opened the blue folder to the first document I had printed.