Those sixteen letters and the black prison Bible are all I have of my dad—that, and the world of resentments I had to sort through on the streets, then in rehab. But it’s more than I ever had, and I was grateful for the journey back to him, even if the old shoebox, some thirty-four years later, was as close as we’d ever get to being father and son.
I cried through this entire section, and I’m so grateful Jesse had that box and the letters.
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Cassandra Davis
