Eight months later, I buried the only parent who had ever stayed.
After the funeral, Dad’s lawyer, Mr. Keene, asked me to remain in the empty chapel.
He placed a grocery bag in my hands. A folded note rested on top, my name written in Dad’s block letters.
There was only one sentence.
“Daddy’s Bug, I hope you can forgive me for what you’re about to find.”
I looked at Mr. Keene.
“Forgive him for what?”
“He told me not to answer.”
“He could have given this to me himself.”
Mr. Keene lowered his eyes.
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