Part One: The Bag He Couldn’t Give Me Himself
“Daddy’s Bug, I hope one day you can forgive me for what you’re about to find.”
I read the sentence once.
Then again.
The note trembled between my fingers as I stared at the wrinkled grocery bag resting in my lap.
Only three hours had passed since I buried my father.
Now I was sitting in the silent funeral home, still wearing the black dress I had chosen for the service. Over it, I had pulled on Dad’s old construction jacket because the room felt unbearably cold.
The jacket still carried traces of him—sawdust, black coffee, and the peppermints he always kept tucked into his pockets.
Across from me stood Mr. Lewis, Dad’s longtime lawyer. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt.
“Did he tell you what I’m supposed to forgive?” I asked.
Mr. Lewis slowly shook his head.
“He only instructed me to give you this after the funeral.”
I looked down at the bag.
“He could have given it to me while he was alive.”
Mr. Lewis lowered his gaze. “He said he couldn’t bear to watch you open it.”
