I haven’t spoken to Callum in fourteen months. He sent a card when my daughter took her exams, but we haven’t found a way to talk about what happened. I have watched Dad’s recording eleven times. Priscilla sent me a copy on a memory stick, and I keep returning to one particular moment near the end.

At around seven minutes, Dad closes the shoebox, looks directly into the camera, and says, “Tell him I’d have given it to him.” Then he adds, “Don’t tell him that.” Priscilla left that part in the recording. I don’t watch it for the numbers anymore. I watch because I still cannot understand how a father and son could spend four years hiding their pain from each other. Some people say Dad handled everything perfectly, protecting himself and ensuring nobody could challenge his decision. Others call him a coward who chose paperwork instead of speaking to his own son. I know which opinion I lean toward. But I also know I lived 210 miles away for those four years, calling every night and visiting every six weeks. In my own way, I wasn’t in the room either.