I believed I understood every sacrifice Dad had made after Mom vanished from our lives. But following his funeral, an ordinary grocery bag shattered the story I had trusted since childhood and pushed me toward a truth he had never found the courage to share.
“Daddy’s Bug, I hope you’ll forgive me after you see what’s inside.”
I read the line twice.
Then I stared at the wrinkled plastic grocery bag in my hands.
Three hours earlier, I had buried my father.
Now I stood in the deserted funeral home wearing his old construction jacket over my black dress. The fabric still carried the familiar scent of sawdust, coffee, and the peppermints he always kept in his pockets.
Mr. Lewis, Dad’s attorney, stood across from me.
“Did he say what I’m supposed to forgive?” I asked.
“He only told me to give you the bag after the funeral.”
Mr. Lewis lowered his gaze. “He said he couldn’t watch you open it.”
