“I know this looks bad.”
Leo moved closer. “What is it?”
“He thought I hated him.”
Gwen let out a shaky breath. “That’s what our mother told him. She didn’t just lie, Heather. She stole eighteen years from all of you.”
I opened the third letter so fast I almost tore it.
“If it’s a boy, I hope he laughs like you do when you’re really happy.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
Leo stared at me. “He wrote that.”
“He thought I hated him.”
I nodded and passed him one of the birthday cards.
“Read it,” I said.
He opened it carefully.
Inside, the handwriting was Andrew’s.
“To my child,
I don’t know if you’ll ever see this. But if your mom tells you I loved her, believe that with your entire heart.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Leo looked at Gwen. “You knew about this?”
“I don’t know if you’ll ever see this.”
“I didn’t know about the letters then,” Gwen said. “I was away at college, and my mother had already decided I was a disgrace, so nobody told me anything unless they had to. Andrew called me after they moved, frantic. He told me Heather was pregnant, and that Mom wouldn’t let him go back.”
“I just wanted him to stay…” I whispered.
“I know,” Gwen said. “But I didn’t learn that until much later. By then, she’d already lied to both of you.”
Leo stared at the box in his lap. “So that’s it?” he asked. “He wanted us, and all this time we thought he walked away?”
“She’d already lied to both of you.”
Gwen wiped her face. “He didn’t walk away. Three years ago, he was driving home from a job when a truck ran a red light. He died before they got him to the hospital.”
“My dad’s really gone?”
“Yes.”
Gwen gave me Andrew’s school photo and the worn pregnancy test I’d given him eighteen years ago. “After our mother got sick, she gave the letters back. He kept every one. He was going to try again.”
Gwen wiped her face.
***
Outside, after I told my parents the truth, my dad cleared his throat. “Let’s get you home, kid.”
On the drive back, Leo fell asleep with a hand on the box. At a red light, I looked over at him and finally understood the truth of everything.
For eighteen years, I thought I was the girl Andrew ran from.
I wasn’t.
