My Mom Found This in My Dad’s Drawer… Is It What I’ve Always Feared?

Nothing had ever been said aloud.

There were no accusations, no reports, no confrontations. Only small observations that never quite fit together: the way my father would retreat into himself when handling his “things,” how his face would drain of color, his posture curling inward, as though he were only half-present—like someone standing there solely because a ritual required it.