I walked to a stone bench near the far side of the cemetery, where the gravel path curled behind a line of old, weathered headstones. I sat down like my bones were suddenly too heavy to hold me up.
Then I unfolded the letter.
It started with my name.
Not “Dear Son.”
Not “To whom it may concern.”
Just:
Eli.
That was how my father wrote when something mattered. Direct. No fluff.
My hands trembled violently as I read.
Eli,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry you’re learning it this way. I didn’t want your first day of freedom to be another prison.
I’ve been sick a long time. Cancer. Not the kind you bounce back from. I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to hold onto hope. I needed you to believe there was a life waiting for you outside those walls.
My throat tightened, a lump of grief lodging itself there.
