Under the photographs lay a yellowed envelope my father had left me.

I had never opened it.

After his death, I was too angry about his silence to read anything written in his hand.

Across the front were four words: For Helen, when ready.

I stared at the envelope until my tea went cold.

PART 10

Inside were three pages, a bank receipt and a short note from a man I had considered gone for decades.

Helen, he had written, I am not asking you to forgive me.