"Why didn't you tell Mom?"
"Because I knew she would never forgive me."
I stared at him.
"And you thought I would?"
His eyes filled with tears.
"I told myself that telling you wouldn't change what happened."
"It would have changed everything."
He looked away.
"I know."
"No, Dad. You don't. I spent my childhood blaming an eleven-year-old boy. I hated him. I imagined finding him and asking why he'd ruined my life."
My voice cracked.
"And all those years, you were sitting beside me, knowing the truth."
He began crying.
"I never stopped hating myself for it."
I looked at him coldly.
"Then you should have told me."
***
My father opened the bottom drawer of his desk.
Inside was a small metal box.
He removed a faded envelope and placed it in front of me.
"I kept these because I knew one day someone would ask questions."
Inside were medical notes, old photographs, and copies of correspondence.
