Clearing through the attic at my childhood home, I come across a letter. Ink faded, paper crisp. Easing open the envelope, an elegant scribe I do not know.
The letter is addressed to my mother, Dearest Angela, dated years before the thought of me even existed. I read through the words, an ache in my heart.
A letter scribed with love, emotions I can only imagine. This is not my fathers writing. How I long to know more.