One who lives two lives—one in the shadows and the other behind a new name. Living in witness protection means never quite knowing which life is the real one.

If you’re reading this, then maybe—just maybe—you’re finally ready to hear the truth. The truth about who we were, who we became, and the road we had to walk alone.

You remember Bridgeport, don’t you? The cracked sidewalks, the rusted chain-link fences, the way the streetlights flickered like they were too tired to keep shining. We learned young that the world doesn’t hand out kindness, not in a place like that.

But we had Grandfather. 

Theodore. 

His name was more than just something written on paper—it was a legacy, a reminder that strength wasn’t about size, but about the weight of your word and the fire in your heart. He taught us that when you see someone struggling, you help. When you see something wrong, you stand up. And we did. Time and time again, even when it cost us.

You were never the biggest kid. Never the loudest. But you fought like hell when it mattered. And when they called you Tiny Tot, when they tried to shove you down, you got back up. Not just for yourself, but for the ones who couldn’t. Because you weren’t just fighting for respect—you were proving that no one, no matter how small, deserved to be ignored.

And then came the summer that changed everything. You were sixteen, working in old Sal’s garage, grease under your nails, hands calloused from turning wrenches. It was supposed to be just a job, just a way to stay out of trouble. But trouble doesn’t always give you a choice. You saw too much. Heard too much. The wrong people were using that garage as a front, moving things that didn’t belong to them, making deals in the shadows. And you—stubborn, reckless you—couldn’t turn a blind eye. You spoke up. And just like that, the life you knew was over.

The courtroom was cold. The men in suits called you ‘key witness.’ But you knew what you really were—a target. Testifying meant burning every bridge back home, putting a price on your own head. But you did it anyway. Because Grandfather would have. Because you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t.

And so, Theodore—the name, the boy, the past—was buried. Witness Protection gave you a new life, a new name: Teddy Graham. A joke of an identity, wrapped in something safe, something forgettable. They wiped away the old streets, the old faces, the memories that made you who you were. But you held onto one thing. You fought for it. You kept Theodore as your middle name. Because no matter how many times they tried to erase you, you weren’t letting go of your grandfather’s legacy. You weren’t letting go of you.

So here we are, thirty years later, still standing. Still fighting. You built a life in the quiet, away from the ghosts of the past. You kept your head down, did good where you could. But no matter how far you ran, the past never really left, did it? It lingers, like oil stains on your hands that never quite wash away. 

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe you were never meant to outrun it.

You’ve carried this alone for so long. But maybe—just maybe—it’s time to let someone else in.

Sincerely, Teddy