Chương 6
"Then I have a right to read them."
He looked miserable.
"I know."
There it was again.
That word.
A word that was becoming impossible to hear.
I turned away.
"Where are they?"
He did not answer.
"Glen."
He took a breath.
"They're in my office."
I walked past him.
He grabbed my arm gently.
Not enough to stop me.
Just enough to ask me to wait.
I looked down at his hand.
He immediately let go.
The movement reminded me that even when someone loves you, they can still hurt you.
"Please," he said.
I looked at him.
"What?"
"I need you to understand something."
I waited.
"My father wasn't trying to hide your father's secret."
I frowned.
"What?"
"Glen?"
"No."
He shook his head.
"Sorry."
He was frustrated with himself.
"My grandfather."
I stared at him.
"What does your grandfather have to do with this?"
Glen sat back down.
"I didn't know how to tell you because I didn't know where the story started."
The answer irritated me.
Stories always start somewhere.
People just choose which beginning is convenient.
"Then start at the beginning."
He looked at Ariel.
Then at me.
"Your father and my grandfather knew each other."
I felt the room shift again.
"No."
"Yes."
"How?"
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
Glen hesitated.
"They built houses together."
That was not the answer I expected.
My father had been a contractor.
He had owned a small renovation company.
I knew he had worked with other builders.
But I had never heard the name Glen's grandfather.
"Why would my father leave letters with you?"
"Because he trusted my family."
I stared at him.
"And not me?"
His face tightened.
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
"No."
He stood.
"He loved you."
The sentence hurt because I believed it.
That was the problem.
I believed my father loved me.
I just no longer knew what else he had hidden.
Ariel climbed out from under the table holding her crayon.
"Mommy?"
I turned toward her.
"Yeah?"
"Are you mad at Daddy?"
The innocence of the question made my anger feel heavy.
Children notice things adults spend years hiding.
I knelt down.
"No, sweetheart."
She looked at Glen.
"Are you sure?"
I forced a smile.
"Yes."
She studied my face.
Then she nodded slowly.
Children accept answers they do not believe all the time.
That might be the saddest thing about them.
That evening, after Ariel was asleep, Glen brought the box from his office.
It was smaller than I expected.
A plain cardboard storage box.
Nothing about it looked important.
That almost made me angry.
Something that could change my understanding of my entire family was sitting in a box that looked like it belonged in a closet.
Glen placed it on the table.
"I never opened all of them."
I looked at him.
"You expect me to believe that?"
He nodded.
"I read enough to know there was something bigger happening."
"How much is enough?"
He looked away.
"Enough to know your father was sorry."
The word stayed with me.
Sorry.
Not guilty.
Not innocent.
Sorry.
I opened the box.
Inside were envelopes.
Dozens of them.
Some had my father's handwriting.
Some had names I did not recognize.
And on top of the stack was a photograph.
A photograph of my father holding a little girl.
The same girl from Clara's picture.
On the back, written in my father's handwriting, were six words.
The moment I read them, I stopped breathing.
"Please don't let her disappear again."
The words on the back of the photograph made my fingers go numb.
Please don't let her disappear again.
I read them once.
Then again.
Then a third time, because my brain kept trying to change the meaning into something less painful.
It did not work.
"Who is she?" I asked.
My voice sounded different.
Calmer than I felt.
Glen sat across from me.
He did not answer immediately.
That bothered me.
People who have nothing to hide usually answer quickly.
People who are trying to decide how much truth you can handle take their time.
"Her name is Lily," he finally said.
The name felt strange.
Like hearing a song you knew existed but had never heard.
"Lily."
He nodded.
"Your father's daughter."
I looked back at the photograph.
She was smiling.
A child who had no idea that decades later, strangers would sit at a kitchen table trying to understand where she belonged.
"Where is she now?"
Glen looked down.
"I don't know."
The anger came instantly.
"You don't know?"
"No."
"You have had these letters for a year."
"I know."
I closed my eyes.
I wanted to stop reacting to that phrase.
But every time he said it, it sounded like a reminder that he understood the damage after causing it.
"What do the letters say?"
Glen leaned back.
"Most of them are from your father to my grandfather."
"Why?"
"Because your grandfather helped him find Lily."
That confused me.
"Find her?"
Glen nodded.
"After your father lost contact with her."
"Lost contact?"
The words felt too gentle.
"Or abandoned her?"
Glen looked uncomfortable.
"I don't know."
There it was.
The same uncertainty.
The same space where everyone seemed to be standing around the truth but refusing to touch it.
I picked up the first envelope.
My father's handwriting was unmistakable.
Even after six years, I recognized it.
The same handwriting that had written birthday cards.
The same handwriting that had labeled boxes in the garage.
The same handwriting that had written notes reminding me to change the oil in my car.
A person's handwriting can survive them.
That felt unfair.
I opened the letter.
The date was twenty-three years earlier.
My eyes moved across the page.
I expected some dramatic confession.
A terrible secret.
Something that would make it easy to decide who was right and who was wrong.
Instead, I found something much harder.
Regret.
He wrote about making mistakes.
May you like
He wrote about being afraid.
He wrote about believing that staying away from Lily would protect her.
