My father texted me, ‘To us, you’re already dead,’ and I only replied,

but this time the tears did not move me. They fell into a room full of documents, and documents do not comfort the guilty.

I looked at my father.

“Who am I?”

He stared at me with an expression I had never seen from him before.

Not anger.

Calculation failing.

My mother whispered, “We raised you.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

She sobbed. “You were better with continue reading …