I laughed softly.
Then I opened the letter.
My father’s words were not magical.
They did not fix my life.
They did not bring back my college fund or erase the diner floor from my memory.
They were simple.
That made them worse.
My sweet Vesper,
If you are reading this at eighteen, it means I am missing a day I wanted very badly to see.
I am sorry for that.
You were always the child who watched everything.
Even when you were small, you noticed when people were tired, hungry, sad, or trying to hide something.
That is a beautiful gift.
It can also become a heavy one.
So let me say this clearly.
You are allowed to build a life that belongs to you.
You are allowed to help people without handing them the keys to your whole future.
You are allowed to love your family and still say no.
