And, in my mind, he had. The man who smelled of sawdust and sunlight, who’d read to me at night, was gone the day my mother left. The father I adored was replaced by a stranger—his face shadowed with fatigue, his hands scarred by years on the road, his love hidden beneath layers of oil and exhaust. He sent me away to live with my aunt, and the money came—quiet, consistent, impersonal. Money orders. Nothing more.
When he showed up at my graduation, he didn’t just embarrass me—he exposed me. Exposed the lie I’d built to hide the truth of who I was.
I nodded, but a cold knot tightened in my chest.
Later that night, after the champagne toasts and forced smiles, I stepped outside my dorm. On the doorstep sat a small, battered wooden box—plain, unwrapped, waiting.
My pulse quickened. I brought it inside and shut the door, anger burning through me as I kicked it open. Inside was no cheap trinket—just an old, leather-bound journal, its cover cracked, tied with string.
It wasn’t a diary. It was a ledger.
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