For 18 years, my son received a mysterious envelope every birthday—when he finally opened the last one, he discovered who had been sending them all along

already shaking when Adrian opened the first letter. It was my father’s handwriting. No one could have copied it.

Adrian unfolded the page slowly and began reading aloud.

“If you are reading this, kiddo, then I missed more of your life than I ever wanted to.”

“I am sorry for that first.”

He stopped. Cleared his throat. Started continue reading …