“She told me that if something went wrong and the boy didn’t come, I should give the letter to you.”
I pointed to the photograph.
“Is that him?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Then what do you know?”
Trudy swallowed.
“He came.”
I froze.
“What?”
“After Teagan died, I saw a young man near the maternity floor asking for her.”
“You spoke to him?”
“No. At first, I didn’t realize who he was. Then I looked at him carefully and remembered Teagan’s description.”
My pulse quickened.
“What happened?”
“He saw you.”
“Doing what?”
“Leaving with Lucas.”
“And?”
“He left.”
I stared at her.
“You watched him walk away?”
“Yes.”
“And then you kept my daughter’s letter?”
Tears filled Trudy’s eyes.
“I told myself you already had enough grief.”
“You made that decision for me.”
“Yes.”
“You made it for Lucas too.”
“Yes.”
My anger became cold.
“So why now?”
Trudy looked down.
“I retired a few months ago. Once I stopped telling myself I was still protecting a patient, I had to admit I was really protecting myself.”
I stood.
“Ten years is a long time to hide behind one bad decision.”
Then I walked out.
The following afternoon, I opened a storage box filled with Teagan’s things.
School programs.
Photos.
A cheap silver bracelet she wore almost every day.
Then I found another photograph of the same boy.
Same face.
Same baseball glove.
Beneath it was a torn notebook page.
Buy diapers.
Finish thank-you cards.
Ask Mom about night classes.
Tell Mom.
I stared at the final words.
Tell Mom.
She had planned to tell me.
She thought there would be time.
“Grandma?”
Lucas stood in the doorway.
He saw the open box and sat beside me.
“Is that Mom’s stuff?”
“Yes.”
I gave him an old school photo.
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