She had used the same kind of wrapping for nearly every birthday present she’d given me as a child.
“I never got the chance to give you this,” she said quietly.
I couldn’t bring myself to take it.
Instead, I stared at her and said the sentence I’d heard so many times growing up that it had eventually become a fact in my mind.
“My dad said you stole from us.”
Her expression tightened.
“Of course he did.”
“What does that mean?”
She glanced toward the house before stepping closer.
“Your dad thought he’d gotten rid of me.”
A chill ran through me.
“Gotten rid of you? What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, she reached inside her coat and pulled out a worn, yellowed envelope.
My name was written across the front in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
The postmark was twelve years old.
She placed it in my hands.
They were trembling.
“George,” she said, “your father has been lying to you since the day you were born.”
I stared at her.
“What is this?”
Anna swallowed.
“It’s the reason he made me disappear. And everything he told you about your mother was a lie.”
