My dad took his life when I was 12. His photo albums led me on a journey around the world for answers

As I stepped off the bus in Tokyo’s wealthy Mejiro neighborhood and onto its quiet streets, the familiarity hit me hard and fast.

Though the rows of traditional Japanese homes were now dotted with a scattering of modern houses — some with luxury cars parked in the driveway — there was no mistaking it: my father’s childhood home.

Originally built by my great-grandparents in the 1930s, the plaque bearing my family name was still at the entrance next to the steps my dad used to help me climb as a child during our visits from Michigan.

But we never stayed long — my father was always restless, always ready to move.

It was a stark contrast to our life in the US, where my dad raised my sister and me. He was always present and never missed a chance to attend one of our school events. He was a