By nightfall, I didn’t know who had been in the room when my son
was born.
I didn’t know whether the father listed on his birth certificate had ever been his father at all.
I didn’t know whether Vanessa had actually given birth to Mason.
I didn’t even know whether Elliot was related to either of them.
But I knew the boy sleeping beside me.
And tonight, that had to be enough.
My phone buzzed.
Vanessa.
I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door softly.
She had sent one message.
I FOUND SOMETHING.
Below it was a photograph.
A letter.
Old.
Creased.
Handwritten.
Vanessa wrote:
My sister Natalie kept a box from the hospital. I asked her to send me pictures of everything inside.
I enlarged the letter.
At the top was a date.
Seven years ago.
Three days after Mason’s birth.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
