There were sixty envelopes.
Every $250 rent payment I’d made over five years.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
On top was a handwritten note from Dad.
“You earned every dollar of this. Don’t waste it the way I wasted my chance.”
I pressed the paper against my chest.
For five years, I’d believed Dad was taking away my future, $250 at a time.
All along, in his stubborn and deeply misguided way, he’d been trying to give it back.
I looked toward the dark computer screen.
“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered. “I just wish you’d told me while you were here.”
