When I was twelve, I padded downstairs at midnight for a glass of water and caught him sitting alone at the kitchen table.

His old moss-green fishing tackle box—the one with the heavy brass locking compartment—was open.

He was hurriedly sliding a thick envelope into it.

I caught a flash of red and blue airmail edging, and a looping, elegant handwriting I didn’t recognize.

He saw me see it.

He didn’t offer a frantic explanation.