A long-hidden secret for over half a century unexpectedly comes to light, illuminating the invisible thread that connects the author's life with that of his father. The heart-wrenching narrative of the family history serves as a Letter to the Father – a belated act of acceptance of the intangible paternal heritage.
At the same time, it also acts as a kind of will, a counsel, and a blessing to his own son – a desperate prophecy or preemptive apology for what he will inherit, willingly or unwillingly. Everything is now explained. He sits across from me and smiles with that half-smile of his, a mixture of compassion and sarcasm… finally, I understand him.
The enigmatic man who raised me, the man I both hated and loved, is an open book before me. Compassion is fine. But what about the sarcasm? One might wonder, and rightly so. Sarcasm relates to the fact that much more unites us than just the wrinkles and the hairline on the forehead.
The moment I fully understand him is the moment I discover what I am made of. The world spits out bitter poison and owes nothing to do good, yet in the end, they will see who I am...
Read an excerpt
The person I see in the bathroom mirror is disturbingly familiar. But it's not my own. The deep lines on the skin, yes, those are from sleep. The gaze is my gaze, I recognize it, but it belongs to a face that comes from very far away, from the depths of time. It's been ten years since my father passed away. He died, but he didn't leave. I recognize the wrinkles under the eyes and around the mouth, especially when I purse my lips to show him my surprise. He immediately does exactly the same, with a hint of a smile.
