Yesterday I finally checked up on the last letter I sent to my first father. Here's what I found:
I keep telling myself, it's not the end of the world. And I know it's not. I mean, part of me knows I don't. Sure, he didn't sign for the letter. I know, intellectually, that it's not personal. I know that this doesn't say anything about me or change who I am. I know all that.
But he could have signed for, and read, the damn letter.
I'm not sure what to do next. But for now, I'm going to try to focus on other things.