Chapter 8: What the Letter Said
I read the letter that night, after Lily was asleep.
Tony sat beside me.
He didn't ask to read it himself.
He waited.
The handwriting inside was different from the envelope — softer, a woman's hand.
Daniel's mother.
Her name was Patricia.
His father's name was George.
She wrote that they had not known about Lily until Rachel told them.
That the news had come to them like something arriving after a very long journey — exhausting and necessary and completely unexpected.
That they had spent the first week after finding out simply sitting with it, not knowing what to do.
She wrote that they were not trying to insert themselves.
That they understood Lily had a father who loved her and a life that was already full.
That they were not asking for anything they had not been offered.
But they wanted her to know one thing.
*Daniel talked about wanting a family from the time he was very young.
He used to say he wanted a house that was loud.
He wanted a kitchen that smelled like something cooking.
He wanted a child who would argue with him about what movie to watch.* Patricia had written.
*He never got that.
But it seems like Lily has it.
And knowing that — knowing she is loved and fought for and not alone — is the thing that has let us sleep at night.*
At the bottom of the letter, in different handwriting — George's, I assumed, larger and more deliberate — was a single line.
*If she ever wants to know where her stubbornness comes from, it's from me.
Daniel got it honestly.*
I laughed before I could stop myself.
A short, wet sound that was not entirely a laugh.
Tony put his arm around me.
"What do they say?" he asked.
I handed him the letter.
He read it slowly.
I watched his face move through several things.
When he reached the last line, he made a sound very similar to the one I had made.
"We should call them," I said.
"Yes."
"Not to arrange a visit yet.
Just to talk." I looked at him.
"Lily should be part of that decision.
She's ten, not four.
She understands more than we give her credit for."
"She always has," Tony said.
We sat quietly for a moment.
The house was still.
The USB drive was on the nightstand in Lily's room — she had put it there herself, said she wanted it close but wasn't ready yet.
"Tony," I said.
"I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly."
"Okay."
"Are there any other things?
Anyone else?
Anything else connected to Daniel or Rachel or his family that you know and haven't told me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"No.
That's everything.
I promise you."
I studied his face for a long moment.
"All right," I said.
"Are we okay?" he asked.
Not defensively.
Quietly.
The way someone asks when they genuinely don't know the answer.
"We're getting there," I said.
"You kept something from me that wasn't yours to keep.
That hurt.
It's going to take a little time."
"I understand."
"But I also know why you did it.
I don't agree with it.
But I understand it." I looked at him.
"You were trying to protect her.
You just forgot to trust me to help."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I won't do that again."
"I know you won't."
He reached over and took my hand.
I let him hold it.
Outside, it had started to rain.
A soft, steady sound against the windows.
The kind of rain that doesn't ask anything of you — just falls, and keeps falling, and eventually stops.
I thought about Patricia and George in Columbus, in whatever house Daniel had grown up in, waiting to see if a grandchild they had never met might someday let them in.
I thought about Rachel, flying home tomorrow, her bag lighter now.
I thought about Daniel, twenty-three years old, pointing a camera at himself and talking into the dark.
And I thought about Lily, asleep down the hall, the USB drive on her nightstand, not ready yet but keeping it close.
She would be ready.
In her own time.
May you like
In her own way.
She always was.
