Another was dated three weeks later.
Another, two months after that.
I read them sitting on her bedroom floor.
“Whatever happened, let me come see you. You don’t have to stay with me. Just let me know you’re okay.”
I read them sitting on her bedroom floor.
Not once did he mention a baby.
The next morning, I placed the letters on her hospital tray. “You said he knew I was pregnant.”
“You let me believe he didn’t want us.”
She stared at the envelopes. “Did you tell him?”
“No.”
I gripped the tray’s edge. “You let me believe he didn’t want us.”
“You would’ve gone back.”
Back home, I opened the second bundle.
He had never known. All those years, I’d mistaken his ignorance for an agreement never to speak about our son.
Back home, I opened the second bundle.
The newer letters were addressed to my mother. The most recent was only three months old.
“My name is Ethan. I believe your daughter, Dorothy, is my birth mother.”
I pressed my thumb over the numbers.
He had included his birthday.
I pressed my thumb over the numbers.
“This was the only family address I could trace. Please pass along my number. She doesn’t have to call, but I’d like her to know I’ve had a good life.”
