And my father.
On the back, in Mom’s handwriting:
Rachel Cole. July 2001.
Ethan stopped breathing.
“My mother’s name was Rachel.”
I looked at him.
“You know her?”
“She died when I was five.”
Daniel sank back into his chair.
That was when I knew this was not coincidence.
Ethan picked up the hospital bracelet.
The plastic had yellowed with age.
Printed across it:
BABY BOY COLE
Date:
Twenty-four years earlier.
Hospital:
St. Vincent’s.
Ethan stared at it.
Then whispered:
“Why does your mother have this?”
No one answered.
He opened the letter.
His hands shook.
I recognized Mom’s handwriting immediately.
The first line was:
Ethan, if you are reading this, then I died before I found the courage to tell you in person.
His eyes moved faster.
Then stopped.
He looked at Daniel.
Not me.
Daniel looked away.
I leaned closer.
“What does it say?”
Ethan swallowed.
Then read aloud.
