When Dad passed, the funeral felt like a formality. I was there, respectful and composed, while Mom and Emma played the part of the grieving family. They had no idea that Dad’s last act of redemption was already set in motion. He had left me a letter, one I received the day the notary called.

“Sheila,” it began, written in his familiar scrawl. “I’ve made many mistakes, and I can’t undo them. I hope this can start to make things right. The house is yours for a reason. You’ve always been the one capable of keeping us together, even if we didn’t see it.”