The words were not enough to repair what had happened, but they were the first words she had spoken without protecting herself.
She handed me a small envelope.
Inside was a copy of Dad’s last letter to her.
She had found it among her belongings after the memorial.
He had written it during his final weeks but never gathered the courage to give it to her.
In the letter, he acknowledged that another man had contributed to her biology.
Then he described the first time he held her, the first night she slept on his chest, and the moment he decided that fatherhood was not a fact he needed a laboratory to grant him.
You were my daughter before you could say my name, he wrote.
Nothing discovered later can make you less mine.
Fiona asked whether the letter could be displayed.
I told her the choice was hers.
A month later, it appeared in the final room of the exhibition beneath no photograph and beside no genetic chart.
Only Dad’s handwriting was visible behind the glass.
Visitors often stood there longer than they stood before the images of copper hair, pale eyes, or freckled skin.
The genetics explained how certain features traveled through our family.
The letter explained why we remained one.
