As the days passed, I found myself replaying every interaction we’d had, every look, every smile. I realized now that his gestures were more than kindness—they were his way of reaching out, of saying the things he couldn’t express in words.
The following Sunday, he didn’t come in. And the one after that. Each absence was a reminder of the time lost, the conversations we never had.
Driven by a need to understand, I decided to dig deeper into my family history. I spoke to my mom more, piecing together the fragments of a life I never knew. Stories of his past, his struggles, how he’d tried to make amends in his own quiet way.
