Yours truly, …

"Granted, Marie, I haven't been the best of fathers," I whisper and smile as if it was the greatest joke ever said.

I have been intrigued about this envelope ever since mom left it on my small metal table. Even Mrs Hail knew something was up with me during our brief talk over Zoom. My English teacher, though observant, knows nothing more about my private life than any random stranger on the streets.

I pick up the scissors and very carefully cut the top of the envelope. The small patch of paper falls on the floor.

It's a birthday card.

I am not sure if I should laugh or cry, so I do both at the same time while desperately holding onto the card. It's too nice. I don't want to tear it apart, as much as it is exactly what I want to do. Dad sent me a card. A birthday card. After all this time? Who sends cards anymore? Mail is more trouble than it's worth. You cannot delete it. You can't call the mailman and say, "Sir, I'm afraid I'd like to unsend." The card is here, in my hands, and it smells of warm July nights back at home. For a moment I let myself think that he doesn't regret what he wrote.

In the center – printed wishes.

At the bottom: "Dad."

I can't help but wonder how long it took for him to admit that.