Lily carried the letter upstairs.
She did not say anything.
I did not follow.
For almost an hour, the house was silent.
Then I heard her bedroom door open.
She came downstairs holding the paper.
“Read this part.”
She pointed to the final paragraph.
Ask your mother to tell you everything she remembers.
“What does he mean by everything?”
“I don't know.”
“You must know something.”
“I don't.”
She looked at me.
“You've been protecting me from this for fifteen years.”
“I thought I was.”
“But maybe you were protecting yourself.”
That sentence hurt because I could not completely deny it.
I sat down.
“When your father left, I was angry. I was ashamed. I was terrified. I didn't know what to tell people.”
“So you told me he abandoned us.”
“I told you what I believed.”
“But you never checked.”
“I tried.”
“How?”
“I called him. I wrote to him. I contacted his family.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at the letter.
“Except maybe they knew more than they told you.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you keep looking?”
I stared at my hands.
“Because eventually you started school. Then you needed me. Then life became expensive and exhausting. Every year it became easier to say, 'Maybe he doesn't want to be found.'”
“And now?”
“Now I know that wasn't the whole truth.”
She sat beside me.
“I don't hate you.”
I looked at her.
“I know.”
“No. I mean it.”
Her voice cracked.
“I was angry because I thought you had taken him away from me.”
“I never would.”
“I know that now.”
She leaned against my shoulder.
For a few minutes, we stayed that way.
Then she asked, “Can we find him?”
I knew what she meant.
Her father.
I also knew there were no guarantees.
“We can try.”
That evening, I called the man who had sent the letter.
He answered quickly.
“I was wondering if you'd call.”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did your brother leave the country?”
“He was trying to get away from our father.”
“Did your father threaten him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten me?”
The man hesitated.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“How?”
“He had people following you.”
I remembered strange cars from years ago.
Phone calls where nobody spoke.
A man standing across the street from my apartment.
Things I had dismissed as coincidence.
“You knew?”
“I knew some of it.”
“Why didn't you warn me?”
“Because I was twenty-three and afraid.”
The anger came quickly.
“You were an adult.”
“So was my brother.”
“He was a father.”
“I know.”
“Then he should have protected us.”
The man sighed.
“You're right.”
That simple answer stopped me.
No excuse.
No defense.
Just agreement.
“Where is he now?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“Can you find out?”
“I can try.”
The next morning, he sent me an old email address.
It might still work.
I stared at the screen.
Lily stood behind me.
“Do it.”
I typed.
Hello. My name is Anna.
I stopped.
Then I continued.
Your daughter is fifteen now.
I sent it.
We waited.
Nothing happened.
Hours passed.
Then a message arrived.
The sender's name was his.
Lily saw it at the same moment I did.
She grabbed my arm.
“Open it.”
I did.
The message was short.
Anna,
I don't know whether I deserve to hear from you.
But if Lily is truly my daughter, I would like to speak with her.
I stared at the screen.
Lily began crying.
“Is he real?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She covered her face.
Then she asked, “When?”
I wrote back.
Soon.
His response came ten minutes later.
I can arrange a video call.
Lily looked at me.
“I'm scared.”
“So am I.”
“What if he doesn't like me?”
“He already said he wants to speak with you.”
“What if he doesn't feel anything?”
I reached for her hand.
“We can't control what another person feels.”
“What if I hate him?”
“You're allowed.”
“What if I love him?”
“You're allowed.”
She nodded.
The video call was scheduled for Sunday evening.
The hours before it passed painfully slowly.
Lily changed her shirt twice.
Then she laughed at herself.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look nervous.”
“Same thing.”
At six fifty-eight, she sat beside me.
At seven, the screen lit up.
A man's face appeared.
Older than the photograph.
Thinner.
More tired.
But unmistakably him.
Lily stopped breathing.
He stared at her.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then he whispered, “Hello.”
Lily's lips trembled.
“Hi.”
He looked at her as though he were trying to memorize every detail.
“You look like your mother.”
Lily laughed through her tears.
“Everyone says I look like somebody else.”
He smiled.
“I suppose you do.”
She stared at him.
“Are you my father?”
His expression changed.
“I believe I am.”
“Believe?”
“I have never had a DNA test.”
“But you knew I existed.”
“Yes.”
“You wrote me a letter.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you come?”
He looked down.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“My father.”
“He's still alive?”
“No.”
“Then why didn't you come after he died?”
His eyes closed briefly.
“Because by then, I had convinced myself that your life was better without me.”
Lily looked at him.
“That wasn't your decision.”
“I know.”
“You should have asked me.”
“I know.”
“Mom didn't stop you.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He swallowed.
“Because I was ashamed.”
The answer seemed to surprise her.
“Of what?”
“Of leaving.”
“You didn't leave because you didn't care.”
“I still left.”
He looked directly at her.
“That is something I cannot undo.”
Lily wiped her face.
“Did you ever think about me?”
“Every day.”
“Did you know my name?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you?”
“Your mother.”
I looked up.
He continued.
“She wrote to me after you were born.”
I stared at him.
“I did?”
“You don't remember?”
“No.”
He nodded slowly.
“That was probably one of the letters your mother sent through my brother.”
I searched my memory.
There had been dozens.
Maybe more.
I had forgotten what I wrote because I had stopped expecting answers.
Lily asked, “Do you have pictures?”
He smiled.
“Some.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
My heart stopped.
He turned his camera slightly.
On the wall behind him was a framed photograph.
A baby.
A little girl.
Lily stared.
“That isn't me.”
“It is.”
She looked at me.
“Mom?”
I stood.
I knew that photograph.
I had never seen it before.
But I recognized the blanket.
The hospital bracelet.
The tiny knitted hat.
It was the photograph I had taken the day Lily was born.
The photograph I had kept in the box.
Except I had never sent it to him.
“How did you get that?” I asked.
He looked confused.
“Your letter.”
“I never sent a photograph.”
“You did.”
“No.”
He looked toward the screen.
Then he understood.
“Anna, I received a package from you.”
“When?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
I shook my head.
“I never sent one.”
He stared at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Lily whispered, “Someone else sent it.”
The possibility hung in the room.
Someone had intercepted our letters.
Someone had controlled what each of us believed the other knew.
And suddenly the story we had spent fifteen years telling ourselves looked less like a series of choices and more like a carefully constructed lie.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Missing Letters Connected the Two Sides of Lily’s Life, and the Person Who Had Kept Them Apart Was Finally Within Reach
She Came Home From Los Angeles Looking at Me Like a Stranger, and I Knew Before She Spoke That Something Had Gone Terribly Wrong
Part 7 of 12
