The Night My Father Locked the Door — And the Truth Tiffany Hid
Sometimes I missed her.
I missed the Tiffany who taught me to braid hair and let me sit on her bed when thunder shook the windows.
Those memories felt dangerous because I worried I would use them to minimize what she’d done.
Colleen told me I didn’t have to choose between nostalgia and truth.
“You can miss who someone used to be,” she said, “and still remember who they were when you needed them.”
On my sixteenth birthday, Tiffany sent a postcard with a picture of a lighthouse.
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