Strong.
Certain.
Brave.
But he had been eighteen.
Just a boy.
My boy.
And he had been afraid.
Yet he had gone through with it anyway.
Clara sat beside me.
“Mom, what happened
to Dad?”
I didn’t know.
For thirteen years, I had told myself that his disappearance was simply another wound I couldn’t heal.
But now there was a question buried inside Ethan’s final letter.
A question that had been waiting for us.
Daniel took out his phone.
“I found him.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Your ex-husband.”
My heart dropped.
“Where?”
“Three years ago, I started looking.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t forget Ethan’s letter.”
He showed me a photograph.
A man standing outside a small house.
Older.
Heavier.
But unmistakably Clara’s father.
“Where is he?”
Daniel gave me an address.
Clara stared at the photograph.
“That man is my father?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he leave?”
Daniel shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
We found him two days later.
His name was David.
He opened the door and stared at us.
When he saw me, his expression changed.
Then he saw Clara.
He nearly collapsed.
“Clara?”
She didn’t move.
For several seconds, father and daughter simply looked at each other.
Then David whispered,
“You look just like him.”
Clara’s voice was quiet.
“Like Ethan?”
David nodded.
“Especially the eyes.”
Clara folded her arms.
“Why did you leave?”
David closed his eyes.
“I was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“Of being afraid.”
I felt anger rising.
“You left us.”
“I know.”
“You ignored every call.”
“I know.”
“You knew your son was going into surgery.”
“I know.”
His voice broke.
“I knew.”
Silence.
Then he said something none of us expected.
“I knew because I was the one who had arranged for the transplant evaluation.”
