I moved around the table and sat down right beside him. “You should have told me sooner.” “I know.” “But you are not going anywhere at all. You’re my son now. Adoption was never some kind of trial period.” His shoulders finally collapsed with relief.
A long silence followed. “There were certain decisions made between the adults involved, at the time.” “The history itself sat buried in older records, but direct contact had become restricted years back, while Willa was still adjusting to her own placement.” “Restricted by whom, exactly?” “Letters were routed through certain channels. Contact was always supposed to be revisited eventually.” “Supposed to be?” “It genuinely wasn’t handled well.”
“Did Callum ever have contact with her?” Another silence. “He sent letters regularly.” “Did Willa ever answer them?” “I don’t actually know.”
Callum did know, though. When I asked him directly, he returned carrying an old shoebox. Inside sat copies of dozens of letters — birthday letters, Christmas letters, letters asking about school. Nearly every single one ended with the exact same sentence. I’m still your brother. “She never once answered a single one,” Callum said quietly.
