The rain came down hard at my stepfather’s funeral. Then, an hour later, his lawyer handed us a locked wooden box full of letters, and the first line of mine told me why one of my sisters had spent years running from the man we all called Dad. The rain started just before they lowered Thomas’s casket, which felt like something he would have found mildly inconvenient and faintly funny. He was that kind of man. If the roof leaked, he put a bucket under it and called it a “temporary indoor water feature.” Standing there in black shoes sinking...
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