wrote that he knew he could not give his children a whole childhood with their father.
So he tried to leave small parts of himself in the places where he thought they would need him later.
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Those were the letters.
No gifts.
No big farewell drama.
Parts of him.
The voice of a father, waiting in the background for questions he would never hear himself.
At the end of the letter, Michael asked me for just one thing.
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He asked me not to spend every birthday staring at the empty seat where he should have been sitting.
He wrote:
« Look into their faces. That’s where I am. »
I read this sentence over and over again.
Then I looked at the twins.
They were still sitting on the floor at the table, covered all over with birthday cake, arguing over a single ribbon from the box.
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My son looked up and
