Light soaked in from the stained glass window beside Tabitha’s booth and painted the sheet of paper before her in glorious color. Biting the tip of her pen, she glanced around the café in search of words. What could she possibly say adequate enough to express what she’d just experienced, what she wanted a boy to read someday that would explain the tremendous sacrifice of his father?

With a sigh, she lowered her pen and simply wrote what came to mind.

Dear Jonas,

I’m writing this to tell you what really happened to your father—and your mother. I never knew her, but if Max loved her . . . well, she must’ve been an amazing woman. And here I go rambling on already. You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve never been much of a writer.

What I want to say is, don’t believe any of the stories you may hear or the “official” report. It’s all a bunch of bull. What really happened? Well, I don’t think I can give it justice, but I’ll try.

Max taught me that life’s greatest irony is, a person’s worth is not measured in how they live but in how they die. What a person gains is measured by what they sacrifice—and if death is the ultimate sacrifice, it must truly be the ultimate gain.

Your father believed in life after death, and so do I. Right now, I know he’s watching me and wants me to tell you his story. It’s a love story, a story of his love for you . . .