PART 3
The next morning, I drove to Martin’s office. He was waiting for me with a thick brown folder sitting on his desk.
“You’re certain?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I’m certain.”
Martin opened the folder.
Inside was a document I had kept hidden for almost five years.
It wasn’t the original will.
It wasn’t a bank statement. It wasn’t a property deed.
It was a letter.
Thomas had written it shortly before he died.
I had discovered it three days after his funeral, tucked inside an old fishing journal.
At the time, I couldn’t bring myself to read it.
I was too broken.
Later, when I finally did, I understood why he had hidden it there.
Thomas had always known that money could change people.
He had also known that our son might one day misunderstand what family meant.
Martin slid the letter across his desk.
“You want Graham to have this now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
I looked at the handwriting.
Thomas’s handwriting.
After all those years, I could still recognize every curve of every letter.
“Yes.”
Martin handed me a pen.
“Then sign here.”
I signed.
The document would be delivered that afternoon.
Not by me.
By a courier.
I didn’t want to stand there and watch Graham open it.
Some things needed to happen without me controlling the outcome.
At 3:17 that afternoon, someone knocked on Graham’s door.
He opened it expecting another bill.
Instead, a courier handed him a sealed envelope.
“Graham Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Please sign here.”
Graham signed.
He closed the door.
Paige was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her phone.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
He opened the envelope.
A single sheet of paper fell into his hands.
The moment he saw the handwriting, his face changed.
“What?”
Paige looked up.
“Graham?”
He didn’t answer.
His lips moved silently.
Then he whispered:
“Dad.”
Paige stood.
“What about him?”
Graham began reading.
The letter was short.
But every word carried the weight of a lifetime.
