He shrugged.
“Because every letter you sent home talked about helping people.”
His eyes softened.
“Prisoners don’t usually write about building schools for military families.”
I laughed despite the tears forming in my eyes.
The sheriff approached the truck.
Then handed me one final envelope from the duffel bag.
My name was written across the front.
In my father’s handwriting.
I opened it slowly.
Inside was a confession.
Signed.
Dated.
Not intended for me.
Intended for each other.
A backup plan in case everything fell apart.
