I turned the envelope over again.
My hands were shaking.
Iris sat across from me, watching every movement.
Ryan remained near the front door.
Nobody spoke.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
I had seen it hundreds of times before.
On birthday cards.
On Christmas envelopes.
On the back of photographs I had once kept inside a drawer.
Iris leaned forward.
"Mom, whose handwriting is that?"
I swallowed.
"Your father's."
She stared at me.
For a moment, she seemed unable to understand what I had said.
Then she looked at Ryan.
"You knew?"
He shook his head.
"No. I only found out something wasn't right tonight."
Iris turned back to me.
"You have a letter from my father?"
I nodded.
"Why didn't you show me?"
I looked at the envelope.
"Because I was afraid of what it would mean."
She let out a breath.
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know."
"How long have you had it?"
I couldn't look at her.
"Almost eighteen years."
Her mouth opened slightly.
Then she sat back.
Eighteen years.
The number seemed to fill the room.
Iris looked toward the kitchen.
The glass of water Ryan had brought her was still on the table.
She reached for it, but her fingers were trembling too much.
I wanted to take her hand.
She moved it away.
That small movement hurt.
But I understood.
I had spent years making decisions for her without giving her the chance to make her own.
Now she needed space.
I placed the envelope on the coffee table.
"I received this before you were born."
Iris looked at me.
"Before I was born?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you keep it?"
I tried to explain.
"I didn't know what to do when it arrived."
She shook her head.
"You could have told me."
"I should have."
"Did he write to you?"
"Yes."
"Was he asking about me?"
I looked down.
The truth was sitting inside the envelope.
I couldn't keep avoiding it.
"There's a letter inside."
Iris stared at the paper.
"Then read it."
My fingers moved toward the flap.
I had opened that envelope years earlier.
I had read the letter until I could remember almost every line.
Then I had folded it and put it away.
I had convinced myself that keeping it hidden was the same as protecting my daughter.
It wasn't.
I opened it carefully.
The paper made a small cracking sound.
Iris watched me unfold it.
Ryan moved away from the door and stood beside the couch.
I began reading.
The first words were simple.
He had written my name.
Claire.
I stopped.
Iris waited.
"Keep going, Mom."
I looked at the next line.
The letter was dated several months before Iris was born.
I read the first paragraph silently.
Then I read it aloud.
He had written that he hoped I was doing well.
He said he had thought about me every day.
He said he knew things between us had ended badly.
Then he wrote something that made my throat tighten.
He wanted to know whether the baby had been born.
I stopped reading.
Iris looked at me.
"He knew about me?"
I nodded.
"He knew you were coming."
Her eyes filled.
"Then why did you say he left before I was born?"
I folded the letter slightly.
"I was angry."
"At him?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
I looked at Ryan.
Then back at my daughter.
"Because I believed he had abandoned us."
Iris looked at the envelope again.
"But he wrote to you."
"Yes."
"And you never answered?"
I didn't speak.
She understood.
Her expression changed.
"You didn't answer him?"
I shook my head.
"No."
For a moment, the only sound was the clock.
Then Iris asked the question I had been avoiding.
"Did he want me?"
I looked directly at her.
"I believe he did."
She wiped her cheek.
"Then why did you keep him away?"
I had no good answer.
Only the truth.
I had been young.
I had been frightened.
I had been hurt.
And somewhere along the way, my anger had become more important than the possibility of giving my daughter a relationship with her father.
I looked at the letter again.
There was one final paragraph.
I hadn't read it aloud.
Iris noticed.
"What's the rest?"
I hesitated.
She leaned forward.
"Mom, please."
I took a breath.
Then I read the final lines.
He had written that he didn't want to force his way into our lives.
He only wanted to know whether he could see his daughter.
He wanted to be given a chance.
And he asked me to tell him where to send his next letter.
I lowered the paper.
Iris stared at me.
"Did you ever write back?"
"No."
"Did he write again?"
I looked at the envelope.
"There was another letter."
Her eyes widened.
"Another one?"
I nodded.
She looked at Ryan.
He was watching me carefully.
Iris turned back.
"Where is it?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I stood up.
"Upstairs."
She followed me with her eyes.
"Go get it."
I looked at my daughter.
For eighteen years, I had kept those letters in the same place.
A small wooden box at the back of my bedroom closet.
I had never thrown them away.
Not once.
I had simply made sure nobody saw them.
"I'll bring them down."
Iris nodded.
I walked toward the stairs.
Behind me, I heard her say something quietly.
"All this time."
I stopped for a second.
Then continued upstairs.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Wooden Box in My Bedroom Held More Than Old Letters, and My Daughter Was Finally Ready to Read Every Word
I Thought My Daughter Finally Had the Perfect Night, Until Her Prom Date Walked Into Our House With Something to Say
Part 5 of 20
