They showed up, thankfully, and that stopped Mike. But I knew I couldn’t stay. I had no money, no job, and nowhere else to go.
I packed what I could. My hands were trembling so badly that I dropped half my clothes.
I barely made it to the women’s shelter. I was exhausted, swollen, and trying not to sob in front of the staff.
The Envelope
As I dragged my suitcases into the room they offered, one of the bags ripped open. Clothes spilled out, and so did a manila envelope.
I froze.
It was the envelope Dad had given me, and somehow, I had forgotten all about it.
I remembered it clearly. It was about a month before Dad passed.
We were sitting on the porch, sharing tea. The sun was low, painting the sky with soft gold. He looked tired but peaceful, like he knew something I didn’t.
Out of nowhere, he pulled a thick manila envelope from under his coat.
“Em,” he said, handing it to me with both hands, “don’t open this until I’m gone.”
I stared at it, confused.
“What is it?”
“You’ll know when the time comes,” he said, eyes crinkling with that familiar twinkle. “Just trust me.”
