My dad left when I was 8. He died two days ago. He lived across the world, which meant a 20-hour and expensive flight. I didn’t really want to spend that kind of money. Yesterday, a half-sibling reached out privately. I was shocked when he told me…

He said my father had spoken about me often, even though we hadn’t seen each other in decades. Apparently, he had kept a small box of letters he’d written but never sent, each one filled with updates about his life and questions about mine. He had wanted to reach out but thought too much time had passed, and that maybe I wouldn’t want to hear from him.

My half-sibling said my father had asked, in his final days, that the box be given to me. Inside were words I never expected — apologies, regrets, and memories from when I was little. There were also photos of me I didn’t even know existed, proof that he had quietly carried my childhood with him all those years.

I realized then that while I had lost him physically years ago, he had never truly let go of me in his heart. And even though I couldn’t change the past, I could choose to forgive and keep the good memories a