PART 4
I took the letters out first. A thick stack, bound with a rubber band gone brittle with age.
“These,” I said, “are copies of every letter I sent you. For twelve years. Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every first I thought their mother might want to know about.” I set them down. “First steps. First words. The day Micah broke his arm falling out of the Hendersons’ tree. Mason’s spelling bee. I sent you photos. I told you, every single time, that the door was open whenever you were ready. No anger. No demands. Just — here are your sons, in case you ever wanted them.”
Tara’s eyes moved over the stack, and the color began to drain from her face.
“Do you know how many times you answered?” I asked. “In twelve years?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Zero,” Micah said. “The answer’s zero.”
I lifted the last letter, the one still in its envelope, and turned it so she could see the stamp across the front.
