“You’ve been a generous father for forty years, Robert,” she wrote.

“You gave him a home, an education and a start in business.

You don’t owe him our dignity.

If you ever have to choose between protecting your peace and pleasing people who won’t respect you, choose your peace.”

I sat on the cold wooden bench for a long while without moving.

The wind stirred the tall oaks behind me and sent a shower of wet leaves down onto the gravel path.

I folded the letter gently along its original creases and slid it back into the envelope.