As time passed, I stopped thinking of them as anything but my daughters. I loved them more than anything, and I did everything I could to make them happy.
Years went by, and we stayed close—even after they grew up and built their own lives.
I worked double shifts.
On the 20th anniversary of Charlotte’s death, my girls showed up at my house without warning.
I was overjoyed. Truthfully, we didn’t see each other as often as I wished—only twice a year, at Christmas and Easter.
To celebrate, I cooked dinner for all of us.
We spent the evening remembering their mother. But I couldn’t ignore the strange looks on their faces. They barely spoke.
My girls showed up at my house.
I could tell something was wrong, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Then suddenly, my oldest daughter, Mia, spoke. “Dad, there’s something we need to tell you. We’ve been hiding it from you our entire lives. But it’s time you knew the truth.”
“What is it? What’s going on?” I asked.
Mia looked at me carefully before answering.
“Mom never stopped loving you.”
Her words made my stomach drop. The room fell silent.
“It’s time you knew the truth.”
“What?” I said, struggling to process it.
Another one of my daughters, Tina, reached into her bag and pulled out a bundle of old envelopes tied together.
“We found these years ago in our old house. They’re letters. Mom wrote them about you.”
I stared at them, unable to speak.
