I told her that a person can be exhausted and still lie or sacrifice their time while still being intentionally cruel to their own blood. “Do you hate me now that you have everything you wanted?” she asked with a voice that was small and broken.
I told her no because hate would have been much simpler and cleaner than the tired feeling I had in the center of my chest. I told her that Grandpa knew exactly who she was but he had finally realized exactly who I was as well before he died.
That evening I went to the duplex alone and found that the kitchen clock was dead while his reading glasses still sat by the sink. I stood in the living room with the affidavit and my dog tags and I did not flinch when the metal clicked together.
I sat in his favorite chair and read the letter again until I saw the handwritten sentence at the very bottom of the yellowed page. “Do not let your guilt make you hand back what the truth has already paid for in full,” the note said.