Lost and Found: A Father’s Letter

In 1968, after graduating high school in Chicago, I spent the summer working for my father’s construction company in Coalwood, West Virginia, before heading to college in Los Angeles. Two years later, my father died by suicide. He had been my hero—a World War II veteran—and his death left me shaken and angry. I worked hard to forget him.

Forty years later, a woman named Emily called me at my law office in San Diego. She said we had lived in the same boarding house in Coalwood and that she had found something I’d left behind: a letter from my father. It had been in a box in her mother’s garage for decades.

Emily asked if I had children. I told her, “We have a daughter, Brittany,” but my voice broke as I added, “We had a son, Jimmy. He was killed by a car three months ago. He was 24.”

Five days later, the letter arrived. As I read it, I realized I had never seen it before. My father wrote of his difficult childhood, struggles with depression, and the war that had changed him. It was deeply personal and filled with tender advice and praise. He ended with:

“I’ll be around, anytime you want me. I’ll be there, because I care more than you’ll ever know, my son. All love, Dad.”

Goosebumps covered my body. The letter arrived on November 8, 2008—Jimmy’s 25th birthday. My father, who I had tried so hard to forget, had kept his promise. He was there for me on one of the hardest days of my life.