I hadn’t been back to the house in twelve years, not since the funeral. So I didn't hesitate when my cousin called me to come before the buyers took everything out.
The gate was still the same colour from years ago, but it was now old, revealing rust under the peeled paint. The yard was overgrown and desperately called to be trimmed. I stood there, staring into empty space, lost in thought, until I heard someone call my name.
“Daniel.”
I turned. It was Ngozi, my cousin. She looked older, thinner. She pointed at the veranda. “I’ve been waiting. Come inside.”
I followed her in. walking in, the house smelled of dust and dampness. It no longer had that familiar smell. It brought about mixed feelings. I didn't know whether it was relief or disappointment. I was led into the siting room by Ngozi, where piles of boxes were stacked against the wall.
“You should go through these,” she said. “Some of them have your name.”
I crouched and pulled one box closer. It was light, not more than a few books inside. On top was an envelope, yellow with age. My name was written on it.
I didn’t open it immediately. Instead, I asked her, “Did you read any of this?”
She shook her head quickly. “I don’t want his secrets. You do.”
Her voice had a sharp tone but she didn’t leave the room. She watched with her arms folded while I tore open the envelope.
The letter inside was short.
"Daniel, I know I was not a good father. I wouldn't dispute that. I was wrong. I shouted at you when I should have listened. If only time permitted me to stay much longer, maybe things would have changed. I may have learned how to be a loving father. The father that you deserved. I'm sorry."
I stared at the paper longer than I expected to. There was no doubt that the handwriting was his. But it didn’t sound like him at all.
Ngozi leaned closer. “What does it say?”
“Nothing,” I muttered, folding it back.
“Then why are your hands shaking?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. I opened the next letter.
"Your teacher says you draw well. if this is what you love, please don't stop. I wanted to build furniture once, but my father laughed at me. So I became nothing. Don’t become nothing."
I frowned. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was terrible at drawing. I never liked it.”
“Maybe he got you mixed up with someone else,” she said, tilting her head slightly.
The idea stung. “His own son?”
Ngozi shrugged. “He never really knew you.”
I wanted to argue, but it didn't matter. The truth sat between us, heavier than the boxes.
We spent the rest of the afternoon sorting his things. Old clothes, pictures and notebooks with half-finished calculations. My father had studied engineering but never worked in it. At least, that’s what I’d always been told. But here were sketches of bridges, even pages of poetry in the same notebooks. None of it added up.
At one point, I found another letter. This one was longer.
"Daniel, I left because I was weak. Not strong enough to stay. I hope you will grow stronger than me. Strong enough to forgive."
I laughed bitterly. Ngozi glanced up. “What now?”
“He says he left because he was weak. Before, he always said he had no choice.”
She gave a tired smile. “People change their stories. Maybe he was lying before. Maybe he’s lying now.”
As evening came, we sat on the veranda, surrounded by the boxes we hadn’t touched. Ngozi lit a lantern, and the glow made everything look softer.
“What will you do with them?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll keep them,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
I nodded.
For a while, neither of us spoke. Then she said, “At least he tried to reach you. My father never even bothered.”
I looked at her, surprised. I had always thought Ngozi hated my father, but maybe she didn’t. Or maybe she hated him less than she hated her own.
I took the letters along when I left. While on the bus, I kept thinking about how many versions of the truth existed. Each one contradicting the last, perhaps representing different possible choices in the multiverse.
He was gone, but somehow he was still talking, still shaping the way I thought of him.
I don’t know if that’s forgiveness. But it’s something.