Iris sat very still.
Ryan looked uncomfortable.
I could tell he wanted to explain more, but he was waiting for her to speak.
She finally turned toward him.
"Did you talk to him for long?"
"Not very long."
"What exactly did he say?"
Ryan looked down briefly.
"He asked whether you knew about the letters."
Iris looked at me.
"How would he know about them?"
I didn't answer.
Ryan continued.
"He told me he had tried to contact your mother years ago."
Iris looked at the wooden box.
"Was he looking for me?"
Ryan nodded.
"That's what it sounded like."
Iris stood up and walked toward the table.
She picked up the first letter again.
Her fingers moved over the date.
Then she picked up the second.
She looked at the photograph.
For several minutes, she didn't say anything.
I wanted to tell her that I was sorry.
But the words felt too small.
I had spent eighteen years deciding what she could know.
Now I couldn't expect one apology to repair that.
She finally turned toward me.
"Did you know he might still be looking for me?"
I shook my head.
"I didn't know."
"But you never tried to find out."
I lowered my eyes.
"No."
She nodded slowly.
Then she asked Ryan another question.
"Did he say where he lived?"
Ryan hesitated.
"He mentioned that he was nearby."
My heart began beating faster.
"Nearby?"
Ryan nodded.
"He said he hadn't come to the dance to cause trouble."
I looked at him.
"Did he ask you to bring her home?"
"No."
"Then why did you bring this up tonight?"
Ryan looked directly at me.
"Because Iris deserved to know."
Iris held the photograph tightly.
"What happened after you spoke to him?"
Ryan explained that the man had left them alone for a while.
He had not demanded anything.
He hadn't tried to interrupt the dance.
He had simply asked Ryan to tell Iris that he had seen him.
Then he gave Ryan something.
A small piece of paper.
Iris looked at him.
"What?"
Ryan reached into his jacket.
He removed a folded piece of paper.
I stared at it.
I knew the handwriting before he opened it.
It was the same handwriting as the letters.
Ryan placed it on the coffee table.
Iris reached for it.
She unfolded it carefully.
There was a phone number.
And a short message.
It said that if Iris ever wanted to speak, she could call.
No pressure.
No demands.
Just a chance to talk.
At the bottom was the same name from the photograph.
Iris read it twice.
Then she looked at me.
"Is this really him?"
I nodded.
"I believe it is."
She looked down again.
"Why would he wait until now?"
I didn't know.
Perhaps he had been afraid.
Perhaps he had believed I would never allow contact.
Perhaps he had spent years trying to move forward while still hoping that one day things would change.
I couldn't speak for him.
I had spent too many years making assumptions about what he wanted.
Iris folded the paper.
"Did he ask Ryan to give this to me?"
Ryan nodded.
"He said it was your decision."
She looked at the phone number.
Then she looked at me.
"Do you want me to call him?"
The question was so unexpected that I didn't answer immediately.
I wanted to say no.
I wanted to ask her to wait.
I wanted to protect the life we had built.
But I had already made enough decisions for her.
So I said the only thing I could honestly say.
"That's up to you."
She studied my face.
"You're not going to stop me?"
I shook my head.
"No."
She looked down.
Then she placed the paper beside the letters.
Ryan stood up.
"I think I should go."
Iris looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
He nodded.
"You need time with your mom."
She glanced at me.
Then back at him.
"Thank you for telling me."
Ryan gave her a small smile.
"I didn't want you to find out in a worse way."
He turned toward the door.
I walked him to it.
For a moment, we stood together in the entrance.
The flowers from earlier were still in a vase on the small table.
Their petals had begun to open.
Ryan looked at them.
Then at me.
"She deserves honesty."
I nodded.
"She does."
He paused.
"I hope you understand why I couldn't keep quiet."
I looked at him.
"I do."
He opened the door.
Before stepping outside, he turned back.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Carter."
"Goodnight, Ryan."
Then he left.
I closed the door slowly.
When I returned to the living room, Iris was sitting with the paper in her hands.
The letters were arranged in front of her.
The photograph rested beside them.
She looked up when I entered.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think he would want to hear from me?"
I sat across from her.
"I think he would."
She looked at the number.
Her thumb moved over the folded edge.
Then she asked something I hadn't expected.
"Would you be there if I called?"
I felt tears fill my eyes.
"Yes."
She nodded.
For the first time that night, she reached for my hand.
I took it gently.
But neither of us pretended that everything was fixed.
It wasn't.
The trust between us had been damaged.
The questions were still there.
And the man whose handwriting filled those old envelopes was no longer just a name from the past.
He was a real person.
Someone Iris might soon hear from.
She picked up her phone.
Then she looked at the paper again.
"I don't think I can call him tonight."
I nodded.
"You don't have to."
She placed the phone on the table.
"I need to think."
"Take all the time you need."
She looked at the photograph once more.
Then she asked me to tell her what I remembered about the day she was born.
So I did.
I told her about the hospital room.
The blanket.
The tiny bracelet.
And the way her father had looked at her when he first held her.
I told her that she had opened her eyes for a moment.
That he had smiled.
That he had whispered something I had never forgotten.
Iris listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she carefully placed the photograph back beside the letters.
Then she looked at the phone number one last time.
She wasn't ready to call.
But she wasn't ready to put it away either.
And for the first time in eighteen years, I didn't ask her to forget.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: My Daughter Couldn’t Sleep After Reading Her Father’s Letters, and the Question She Asked Me the Following Morning Was One I Had Never Prepared to Answer
I Thought My Daughter Finally Had the Perfect Night, Until Her Prom Date Walked Into Our House With Something to Say
Part 8 of 20
