Ah, my father. His name was Julius, a nobleman of high standing in Alexandria, wealthy, respected, and devoted to the customs of our people. He gave generously to the synagogue and saw to it that his children were trained both in the Law of Moses and in the sciences of the Greeks—as was fitting for a Jewish family dwelling in a city where the two worlds met daily in tension and wonder.
He did not write books nor seek fame, but his wisdom lived in his restraint, his reverence for God, and his careful stewardship of our household. It was from him I learned the beauty of order, the value of silence, and the strength of faith that does not always need to speak.
If he had ambitions, he placed them beneath the greater duty of faithfulness. And though he may not be remembered in the halls of Rome or the academies of Athens, his name is known in heaven, and that is the only remembrance worth seeking.