I’m on my way." Those four words defined my father. No matter the mess—whether I was an 11-year-old in juvie, a runaway, or an adult lost in the fog of addiction—he was the one person who never gave up on me. He chose me, even when I didn't deserve to be chosen, simply because I was his daughter. Before he died, he trusted me with one final task: to protect his legacy and honor his wishes. But when he passed, the sister who never knew him stepped in, the will vanished, and I was erased from the ending of his story. After a three-year legal battle, I lost almost everything he intended for me. But it wasn't the money that broke me; it was the failed promise. This is a letter about the debt of love, the pain of being silenced by those who didn't show up, and the realization that my father was always "the good piece" of bread in a world that felt ruined. "I didn’t care about the money, Dad. I cared about doing right by you. I cared about honoring what you asked."