“Because you’re going to learn a hard lesson. You’re going to learn that you can’t treat people badly and expect them to keep giving you things.”
Lily frowned. “Mom says you’re mean.”
“I know. But I’m not. I’m just tired.”
I walked out the front door. I stood on the porch. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The neighborhood was quiet.
I called David.
“It’s done,” I said.
“How did it go?”
“I told her. I showed her the letter.”
David was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
“Do you want me to come up?”
“No. I want you to stay where you are. I want you to keep being the son who calls his mother every Sunday. The son who remembers her birthday. The son who doesn’t treat her like a wallet.”
David laughed. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too.”
I hung up. I sat down on the porch swing. I pushed myself gently. The chains creaked. The wind blew. The roses Robert had planted were still blooming.
Sarah and Greg moved out three weeks later. They found an apartment on the other side of town. It was small. It was expensive. Sarah had to get a job. Greg had to get a job. Lily had to change schools.
I didn’t help them pack. I didn’t wave goodbye. I watched from the window as their car pulled out of the driveway.
Then I walked through the house. Every room. Every corner. I opened the windows. I let the air in.
I found Lily’s stuffed rabbit under the couch. I put it in a box. I mailed it to her. No note. Just the rabbit.
I found Sarah’s childhood photographs in a drawer. I looked at them for a long time. A little girl with pigtails. A little girl blowing out birthday candles. A little girl who was not mine but who I had loved as if she were.
I put the photographs in an album. I put the album on the shelf. I didn’t throw them away. I wasn’t ready. Maybe I never would be.
The final twist came six months later.
I was cleaning out the garage. Robert’s old workbench. His tools. His boxes. I found a second letter. This one was addressed to Sarah.
I opened it. I knew I shouldn’t. But I did.
“Dear Sarah,” it read. “I know you’re angry. I know you feel betrayed. But I want you to know that I loved you from the moment I held you. You were not my blood. But you were my daughter. And I was proud of you.”
The letter continued.
“I made mistakes. I kept secrets. I tried to protect you. I tried to protect Carolyn. I failed. But I never stopped loving you. I never stopped hoping you would come back. I never stopped waiting.”
I sat down on the garage floor. I cried.
Sarah had never seen this letter. Robert had never given it to her. He had been too afraid. Too ashamed. Too proud.
I called Sarah.
