Mr. Tarkin flips over a piece of paper and says, “It will be easier if I read his letter out loud.” He clears his throat and says, “‘From the desk of Edward Moore. Myla, depending on when I pass, I may not have told you about Miranda and the boys. If that’s the case, forgive my cowardice in life. Sadly, I’m sure your mother would waste no time in telling you about them. It would be in her nature to do so. The older you’ve become, the more I’ve wanted to sit you down and tell you the truth. To meet with you one on one and be honest. I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you myself, but I need you to know, you weren’t the reason I split my time. It had everything to do with your mother. I pleaded, begged her for a divorce, told her I would take you with me and set her free to do what she wanted to do—focus on her career. But instead, she decided to make our lives miserable. I wasn’t the father I was supposed to be for you and for that, I am sorry. But my biggest regret is never pulling you out of a situation that you should have been pulled from.’” Tears spring to my eyes, and Ryot notices immediately and hands me a tissue from the center of the table before wrapping his arm around me. “‘You deserved better. So much better, and I just hope that you find someone in your life that will bring you joy. That you find peace. And that you spend the rest of your days searching out your very own happiness.’” Mr. Tarkin clears his throat and moves the paper he was reading to the back.

“Was that it?” Mom asks, her voice and expression remaining stoic.

“No, there’s more.” Mr. Tarkin shifts again, and from his body language, I can see that he doesn’t want to read what’s next. “‘Verna, you have made every person’s life who lived under my roof miserable, and I only wish that you were the one in the grave, not me.’” My eyes widen in shock. Dad wrote that? No way.

“How dare he,” Mom mutters.

Mr. Tarkin continues. “‘Therefore, I hereby bequeath my retirement, life insurance, survivor benefit plan, and my personal savings to my daughter, Myla. The house that is under my name, I have given to Miranda and the boys to do what they would like with it.’”

“What?” Mom shouts, as my jaw hits the table.

“‘And as for my possessions, I request they are donated to goodwill. My art collection to the Veteran’s League of Chicago is to be sold at value or to be used for decoration. I hope this is a lesson to whoever is in this room: treat those close to you with kindness, don’t be a coward like me, and never let anyone or anything hold you back from what you truly want in life.’”