I Returned For Thanksgiving To Find My Parents Gone—And My Father Waiting

on the tile floor.

That’s when I saw it.

On the granite island, right next to the fruit bowl that contained nothing but three blackened, rotted bananas crawling with fruit flies, was a piece of lined notebook paper.

I recognized the handwriting immediately.

It was Brady’s—scrawled, hurried, careless. The handwriting of someone who didn’t think twice about continue reading …