The education trust contained more money than I had ever imagined.
It would pay for college, graduate school, and more.
Yet the number on the legal document felt strangely empty.
Dad had once spent an entire winter wearing boots with a cracked sole so he could afford my school trip to Washington, D.C.
Adrian’s money could pay tuition.
But it could not replace a single bedtime story.
It could not teach me to ride a bicycle.
It could not sit beside me in the emergency room when I broke my arm.
It could not cheer from the front row at graduation.
I folded the letter and walked downstairs.
Dad was in the backyard taking down the decorations.
“Why are you doing that?” I asked.
“I thought you might not feel like celebrating.”
I looked at the banner, the folding tables, and the cake he had ordered with my university’s logo.
“Put them back.”
He studied my face.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’m not sure about anything.”
Then I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.
“But I’m sure you’re my father.”
His body shook as he held me.
For the first time that day, I let myself cry.
