gave me an irritated look.
“What would you write?”
“Luis, I was wrong.”
Dad stared.
“That’s too short.”
“You have forty years to explain afterward.”
He looked at the page again.
Eventually, he wrote the letter himself.
Three pages.
No excuses.
No request for forgiveness.
Just the truth.
He told Luis about Mom.
About Derek.
About me.
About the house.
About the workshop property.
About finding Granddad’s drawing.
At the end, he wrote:
I spent many years believing silence kept old disagreements from becoming worse. Now I think silence only
