PART 3
I opened the envelope with hands that wouldn't stay still, and there was my daughter's handwriting, the handwriting from grocery lists and birthday cards and notes left on the fridge, and my whole chest caved in.
"Mom,
If you're reading this, then something went wrong, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for all of it — for the secret, for the not-telling, for making you ask about the father over and over while I gave you nothing. Let me explain, because you deserve to understand, even if it's too late for me to explain it to your face.
The father's name was Michael. I loved him, Mom. Not a silly teenage thing — I loved him the way you told me you loved Dad, the real way, the whole way. We had one summer. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
And then he died. In August. Before I even knew for sure I was pregnant.
