They called my father “The Bulldog” in court – relentless, brilliant, and uncompromising. At home, he was quiet, especially about his work. When cancer took him too soon, my husband Paul couldn’t hide his disappointment that I’d inherited nothing. His divorce papers arrived before the funeral flowers wilted.
But Dad left me a key – both literal and figurative. Unit 214 at Metro Storage contained files on a case that had haunted him for decades. The more I read, the more I understood why he’d never warmed to Paul. The evidence pointed to Paul’s uncle embezzling millions and framing an innocent woman named Clara.
When I confronted Paul, his reaction chilled me: “That’s ancient history.” But injustice doesn’t expire. With help from a nonprofit, we got Clara’s case reopened. The day she walked free, she hugged me and whispered, “Your father never stopped fighting for me.”
Now I understand why Dad worked those late nights. Some debts can’t be paid with money. Some gifts can’t be wrapped. And some love letters come in the form of case files.
