“My uncle once asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’ when I was already 27 years old. From that moment, I started to be afraid of him. And a few days later, when he took me to a hotel outside the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, ‘After the pool, come up to my room…’”

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“Your parents met in this hotel.”

I said nothing.

“But that’s not the whole story.”

He opened the envelope.

Inside was a letter written in my father’s handwriting.

It turned out that during the final months of his life, my father had been preparing something for me.

He had collected photographs from my childhood, letters from my mother, little notes from my school years, and even old postcards I had given him when I was a child.

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He had asked Richard to keep everything safe.

But the biggest surprise was still inside the suitcase.

Documents.

Years earlier, my father had opened a small savings account in my name and added money to it every month.

Not huge amounts.

Sometimes only twenty or thirty dollars.

But over the years, enough had accumulated for me to finally pursue the dream my father had known about since my university years.