I made my prom dress from my late father's old uniform - but what I found hidden in the fabric shocked me.

Five years had passed since Dad's death.

Then came the warning.

"Please don't trust Glen..."

The sentence continued on the next page.

I unfolded it.

"...when he tells you he's fine."

I looked at Grandma.

"What does that mean?"

"...when he tells you he's fine."

She covered her mouth.

Before she could answer, I heard Dad's voice as clearly as if he were standing right behind my chair.

"The strongest people are always those who have the most difficulty asking for help."

He had repeated that to me throughout my childhood.

When I fell off my bike at seven years old and got up too quickly, with blood running down my shin, I said, "It's okay."

Dad crouched down in front of me.

"That's why I know you're not doing well."

" How are you. "

When Grandma continued to do the laundry even though she had the flu because "laundry doesn't care about fever," he wrapped her in a blanket and took away her basket.

She protested.

" How are you. "

Dad smiled.

"Strong people are very bad liars."

And every time Glen showed up with a bruised shoulder, an empty stomach, or dark circles under his eyes, Dad would say the same thing.

"Strong people. Poor liars."

Glen was still laughing.

"It's okay, Chris."

Dad never believed it.

Me neither, apparently.

I reread the letter.

To understand why my father had written it, I had to remember the man who had raised me.

Dad never believed it.

***

My mother died giving birth to me.

Dad often said that she had given him two impossible things in the same day.

Me.

And the mission of becoming enough for both of us.