about my son while I was thousands of miles away in a combat zone.
“I never said this,” I told Jessi, struggling to control my anger. “I didn’t even know this letter existed.”
“I believe you didn’t write it,” Jessi replied. “But that doesn’t mean I knew what you would have chosen back then.”
Her words hurt because I had given her almost no reason to trust me.
During our divorce, wounded pride had controlled me. I refused every attempt Jessi made to explain the innocent photograph of her with
