I was 20 years old when I found out my stepmother had been lying to me about my father’s death. For fourteen years, the story had never changed. “It was a car accident,” Meredith would say gently whenever I asked. “It was raining. The roads were slick. It was random. Nothing anyone could have done.” I believed her. For most of my childhood, the explanation felt complete. Sad, but complete. Accidents happen. People lose parents. Life can be unfair without being intentional. I carried…
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After My Father Passed When I Was 6, My Stepmom Raised Me — Years Later, I Discovered a Letter He Had Written
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