Chapter 4: The Address on the Back of the Envelope
He went inside without another word and came back two minutes later holding a plain white envelope.
He set it on the small table between the chairs and sat back down.
I picked it up.
My name was written on the front in Grandpa's handwriting.
The flap had never been sealed.
"I wrote that eight months ago," he said.
"When I first found out.
I kept meaning to give it to you, and then I kept deciding it wasn't the right time." He looked at his hands.
"I suppose there was never going to be a right time."
Inside was a single folded sheet of paper.
An address in a town called Millhaven, about two hours north.
A name below it: Caleb Reeves.
"How did you find him?"
"I hired someone," Grandpa said simply.
"After your mother passed, I went through her things.
I found a box in the attic — the one she'd packed away.
There was a letter inside from a woman named Ruth.
She was Daniel's mother.
The one who gave the baby up." He paused.
"Ruth had written to your mother years later, trying to make contact.
Your mother never wrote back.
But she kept the letter."
"And Ruth knew where Caleb was?"
"Ruth had passed by the time I found the letter.
But she'd included the name of the adoption agency.
I hired a man to trace it forward." He nodded at the envelope.
"That's where it led."
I stared at the address.
"Does he know he was adopted?"
"I don't know."
"Does he know anything about Daniel?"
"I don't know that either."
I folded the paper and held it in both hands.
"He ran," I said.
"The night I told him I was pregnant, he disappeared.
He never called.
Never explained.
He just left."
"I know."
"If he knew — if he somehow knew who I was—"
"He couldn't have known," Grandpa said firmly.
"He was adopted.
His records would have been sealed.
He had no way of knowing your mother's name, or yours." He leaned forward.
"What happened between you and Caleb was a tragedy, sweetheart.
Not a crime he committed knowingly.
Not one you committed either."
I understood that.
Somewhere in the part of my mind that was still functioning clearly, I understood it completely.
But there was another part — the part that had spent eight months loving someone, the part that had watched him walk away without a word — and that part was not interested in logic.
"He still left," I said.
"He did."
"He left me alone with his daughter and never looked back."
"Yes."
"And now I have to go find him and tell him that the woman he abandoned is his cousin and the baby he ran from is the proof of it."
Grandpa didn't try to soften it.
He just looked at me steadily.
"You don't have to do anything," he said.
"You can put that envelope in a drawer and never open it again.
You can raise Nora here, with me, and give her a good life, and this secret stays buried with everything else your mother buried." He paused.
"But I don't think that's what you're going to do."
I looked down at Nora, still asleep, one small fist curled against her cheek.
"She's going to ask questions someday," I said.
"About her father.
About where she came from.
About why her eyes look the way they do." I looked up.
"What do I tell her?"
"The truth," Grandpa said.
"When she's ready."
"Then I need to know the whole truth first." I stood up.
"I'm going to Millhaven."
Grandpa nodded slowly.
He didn't look surprised.
He looked like a man who had been waiting a long time for someone to finally say those words out loud.
"I'll come with you," he said.
"No." I tucked the envelope into my jacket pocket.
"I need to do this part alone."
He watched me carry Nora to the car.
He stood on the porch steps, one hand on the railing, as I buckled her into her seat.
"Call me," he said.
"The moment you know something."
"I will."
I backed out of the driveway.
In the rearview mirror, he stood there until I turned the corner and he disappeared from view.
I drove for twenty minutes before I had to pull over.
I sat on the shoulder of the road with the engine running and both hands on the wheel and let myself fall apart for exactly five minutes.
I counted.
I had always been good at giving myself a fixed amount of time to break down before I had to put myself back together.
When the five minutes were up, I wiped my face.
I checked on Nora in the mirror.
Still asleep.
I pulled back onto the road.
I had an address.
I had the truth.
And I had a daughter whose eyes were going to demand an explanation someday whether I was ready or not.
May you like
What I didn't have — what I hadn't let myself think about yet — was any idea what I would say when Caleb opened the door.
Or whether he would open it at all.
