The house still smelled like their father: pipe smoke and cold coffee. Mara, Theo, and Diane stood in the hallway together for the first time in nine years. Nobody spoke. Then Theo bumped the old record cabinet and the back panel slid loose. Behind it sat a hidden shelf, and on it were dozens of cassette tapes, each one labeled in their father's tight handwriting.

Mara grabbed the first tape and dug an old player out of the desk drawer. "We listen now," she said. "Together. No more secrets in this house." Theo looked nervous but nodded. She pressed play, and their father's voice filled the room, tired but clear: "If you're hearing this, I'm gone. And I owe you the truth."

Theo couldn't take it. He yanked the tape out mid-sentence. "I can't sit here and listen to him play the victim," he snapped. "He had nine years to say this to our faces." He walked to the window and stood there, breathing hard, and told them he was done for the night. The tapes could wait. Some part of him hoped they'd wait forever.