I knew what it said.

I had lived what it said.

Instead, I carried it to the small fireplace in my new house, and I burned it, and I watched the paper that had defined the worst night of my life curl into ash, not because I was hiding anything anymore, but because I no longer needed it.

The truth was out.

It had done its work.

And I did not want to keep a copy of my family’s crime any more than I wanted to keep a copy of their lie.