PART 3

I stared at her. “Did you know my daughter?” “Yes.” “How?” Evelyn looked at my daughter’s grave. “We worked together.”

My heart skipped. “My daughter worked?” Evelyn gave me a strange look.

“You didn’t know?” “No.” She seemed genuinely surprised.

“What did you think she was doing?” “She was eighteen.” “I know.”

“She was pregnant.” “I know that too.” “Then tell me something I don’t know.”

My voice came out sharper than I intended. Evelyn nodded slowly. “Your daughter didn’t tell you because she believed she was protecting you.”

“Protecting me from what?” Evelyn’s eyes moved toward the road. “From the baby’s father.”

My stomach tightened. “You know who he is?” “Yes.”

The answer hit me harder than I expected. For ten years, I had heard my grandson ask that question. For ten years, I had stared at my daughter’s photographs and wondered who had given her the child she had loved so fiercely.

And now a stranger was standing in front of me telling me she knew. “Who is he?” Evelyn shook her head.

“Your daughter wanted you to read the letter first.” “Why?” “Because she knew you would want to find him immediately.”

“She was right.” “And she was afraid that if you knew his name before you understood the situation, you would make a decision she had spent years trying to avoid.” I stared at the envelope.

“What situation?” Evelyn didn’t answer. Instead, she looked toward the parking lot.

My grandson was walking back toward us. He was holding the birthday card against his chest.

“Grandma!” I quickly slipped the envelope into my coat pocket. He came running up the hill.

“I found it.” Then he noticed Evelyn. He slowed.

“Who’s she?” I looked at Evelyn. For the first time since we had met, she looked frightened.

“Someone who knew your mother.” My grandson’s eyes widened. “You knew Mom?”

Evelyn smiled sadly. “A little.” “Did you know her well?”

Evelyn glanced at me. “Better than you think.” My grandson looked at his mother’s grave.

Then back at Evelyn. “Did she ever talk about me?”

Evelyn’s face softened. “All the time.” He smiled.

“What did she say?” Evelyn opened her mouth, but no words came. Finally she said, “She said you were the reason she never gave up.”

My grandson looked down at the card. “She would have liked you,” Evelyn continued. “I hope so.”

“She would have been proud of you.” He smiled faintly. Then he placed the card beneath the flowers.

I watched him kneel there. My daughter had been eighteen when she died. My grandson was ten now.

Sometimes I looked at him and saw her face. The same eyes. The same stubborn chin.

The same habit of biting his lower lip when he was thinking. And suddenly I wondered whether someone else had been looking at those same features for the past ten years. Someone who knew exactly where he was.

Someone who had never come forward. Someone who had allowed me to raise him without ever saying a word. I turned to Evelyn.

“Where can I talk to you privately?” She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Why not today?” “Because there are things you need to know before you hear them.” “What things?”

Evelyn reached into her purse again. This time, she pulled out a small photograph. She handed it to me.

I looked down. My heart stopped. It was my daughter.

But she wasn’t alone. She was standing beside a young man. They couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen.

My daughter was smiling. The young man had one arm around her shoulder. And in his other hand was a tiny ultrasound photograph.

On the back of the picture, in my daughter’s handwriting, were four words. “Our little secret.” I stared at it.

“Who is this?” Evelyn whispered his name. “Daniel.”

The name meant nothing to me. But then she added something that made my entire body go cold. “Daniel is your grandson’s father.”

I looked at her. “Where is he?” Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears.

“He’s been looking for you.” My heart began pounding. “What?”

“He didn’t know your daughter died.” I couldn’t speak. Evelyn continued.

“He believed she left him.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “It will.”

“When?” “Tomorrow.” She took one step backward.

“Tomorrow I will tell you everything.” Then she turned and walked away. “Wait!”

She stopped. “Why did you wait ten years?” She didn’t turn around.

“Because your daughter made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you until your grandson turned ten.” “Why ten?” Evelyn finally looked back.

“Because she believed that by then, he would be old enough to decide whether he wanted to know his father.” Then she walked away. I stood beside my daughter’s grave, unable to move.

My grandson came over. “Grandma?” I looked at him.

“Are you okay?” I forced a smile. “Yes.”

“You look sad.” “I was just thinking about your mom.” He nodded.

Then he took my hand. “Grandma?” “Yes?”

“Do you think Mom would want me to know my dad?” The question nearly broke me. I looked at my grandson.

For ten years, I had told him I didn’t know. But now I did. Or at least, I knew his name.

And for the first time, I realized that my daughter hadn’t kept the truth from me because she didn’t trust me. She had kept it from me because she knew exactly what would happen when the truth finally came out. That night, after my grandson went to bed, I sat alone at the kitchen table.

The envelope lay in front of me. I stared at my daughter’s handwriting for nearly an hour. Finally, I opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. The first line read: Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. My vision blurred.

I kept reading. Please don’t hate me. I covered my mouth.

Then came the sentence that made my hands start shaking. Daniel did not abandon me. I stopped.

I read it again. Daniel did not abandon me. The man I had spent ten years silently blaming didn’t know what had happened.

My daughter continued. He loved me. He loved our baby.

But there are things you don’t know about his family. Things I was too afraid to tell you. I swallowed hard.

The next paragraph was even worse. Mom, if something happens to me, don’t let them take my son. I stared at the words.

“Take him?” Who was “them”? I continued.

Daniel’s father knows about the baby. He has known from the beginning. He wanted control.

He told me that if I tried to keep Daniel away from the family, they would make sure I lost my child. My hands went numb. I read faster.

I know this sounds impossible. I know you’re going to want answers. But please believe me.

I didn’t disappear because I wanted to. I disappeared because I was scared. I stopped again.

My daughter had written those words before she died. She had been eighteen. Pregnant.

Terrified. And apparently carrying a secret far larger than anything I had ever imagined. Then I reached the final paragraph.

There is one person you can trust. Evelyn. She knows everything.

My eyes moved to the final sentence. And Mom, if Daniel ever comes looking for his son, please don’t stop him. But make sure you ask him one question first.

I held my breath. Ask him what happened the night I died. The paper slipped from my hands.

I stared into the darkness. For ten years, I had believed my daughter’s death was a tragic complication of childbirth. The doctors had told me there had been nothing anyone could have done.

But my daughter had just asked me to investigate the night she died. Why? What had she known?

What had Daniel known? And who were the people she had been afraid of? I barely slept.

At seven the next morning, there was a knock on my door. I expected Evelyn. Instead, when I opened it, a man was standing on my porch.

He looked about twenty-eight. Tall. Pale.

His hands were shaking. He looked at me for several seconds without speaking. Then his eyes moved past me.

Toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom where my grandson was still sleeping. The man’s eyes filled with tears.

“I think,” he whispered, “I’m his father.” My heart stopped. Daniel had finally come.

And he wasn’t alone. A black SUV was parked across the street. Inside it sat an older man watching my house.

The moment I saw him, I remembered the words in my daughter’s letter. Don’t let them take my son.