Now I understood the quiet pride in his eyes at every birthday, the way he always showed up but never stayed too long. It hadn’t been coldness. It had been restraint. The next day, still reeling, I went to my parents. I confronted them with the letter in my hand, my voice shaking with questions I hadn’t even formed yet. They looked at each other, then at me, and nodded. It was true.

They had made the choice together, to protect me from a life they feared would be too complicated, too confusing. They said they had done it out of love. But to me, it felt like betrayal. Like my entire identity had been built on a carefully maintained lie. I left without knowing what to feel—angry, sad, lost. I told them I needed time. I still do.

Later, I placed Eric’s letter in a simple wooden frame and set it on my shelf. It’s not just paper—it’s a key to the truth I never knew I needed. The truth hurt, but it also brought clarity. Eric was my father. He loved me in silence. And now, finally, I understand.