“I didn’t follow you to pressure you,” he said. He stayed in the doorway. He didn’t come in. “I swear. I just needed to know you were safe. You left the hospital two days after major eye surgery, Hannah. Alone. In a cab. I was terrified.”
“You hid your true identity from me.”
“I know.”
“For twenty-two years.”
“I know, love. I’m so sorry.”
He said it so simply. I know. I’m so sorry. No excuses. Not yet.
He looked down at the letter in my hand.
“You found it,” he said quietly.
“Why did you keep it?”
“Because I never got to give it to you.”
He took a breath.
“The thing is,” he said, “I recognized you that first day. At the practice. Before I even walked into the room.”
“How?”
“Your name. On the chart. Hannah Reeves. Date of birth. Cause of injury, playground trauma, age eight.” His voice cracked. “I stood outside that door for a whole minute, Hannah. I almost didn’t go in. I almost asked someone else to see you. And then I went in and you were sitting there on the table, and you looked exactly the same. Older. But the same. And then you said my voice sounded familiar.”
