I couldn't stop thinking about the cards.
They had been sitting in Sarah's drawer for years, waiting for two boys who had never known they existed.
When Grant and I returned to his apartment, I still had mine in my jacket pocket.
I placed it on the kitchen table.
The envelope was yellow around the edges.
My name was written across the front in handwriting I had never seen before.
Wesley.
Just that.
No surname.
No address.
I ran my finger over the writing.
Grant placed his own envelope beside mine.
Neither of us opened them immediately.
"Do you want to read yours first?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Let's read them together."
He nodded.
We carefully opened the envelopes.
Inside mine was a folded birthday card.
There was a small drawing of a blue balloon on the front.
I unfolded it.
The message was simple.
Sarah had written that she hoped I was happy, that I was growing into a kind person, and that she wished she could celebrate with me.
She mentioned that she remembered how I used to reach for anything blue.
I stopped reading.
I didn't remember that.
I didn't remember anything about her.
But she remembered.
Grant read his card quietly.
Then he placed it on the table.
"What did yours say?"
I handed him mine.
He read it again.
His eyes became wet.
"She remembered everything."
I looked at the cards.
There were small details in both.
Things that only someone who had spent time with us as children could have known.
The way Grant used to hold a toy truck.
The way I would fall asleep with one hand wrapped around a blanket.
Sarah had remembered things we had forgotten.
I felt something heavy settle inside me.
For years, I had thought nobody from our first family cared enough to remember us.
Now I was holding proof that someone had remembered every birthday.
Grant picked up his card.
"Why didn't she send these?"
"Maybe she did."
We both knew what that meant.
Someone had prevented them from reaching us.
I called Sarah.
She answered quickly.
"Hello, Wesley."
"Hi. We read the cards."
She became quiet.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
I looked at the blue balloon.
"Thank you for keeping them."
Sarah gave a small laugh through her tears.
"I couldn't throw them away."
I swallowed.
"Did you ever send them?"
"Some of them."
"What happened?"
"I was told they couldn't be delivered."
"By Gwendolyn?"
Sarah didn't answer immediately.
Then she said:
"I don't want to spend our first days together talking only about her."
I understood.
She had lost enough time already.
But I still needed answers.
"One more question."
"Go ahead."
"Did Raymond know about the cards?"
"Yes."
"Did he know you were trying to reach us?"
"Yes. He helped when he could."
I closed my eyes.
There was so much about Raymond that we hadn't understood.
He had loved us.
That much was never in doubt.
But he had also known that our childhood was built around a secret.
I thanked Sarah and ended the call.
Grant was looking through the old photographs.
He had placed the picture of Sarah holding us beside Raymond's letter.
The two objects seemed to belong together.
One showed the beginning of our lives.
The other showed the man who had tried to explain it.
I wondered whether Raymond had planned to tell us everything before he died.
Perhaps he had thought he would have more time.
Perhaps he had believed Gwendolyn would eventually change her mind.
I would never know.
That evening, Grant and I agreed to visit Sarah again.
We also agreed that we needed to speak with Gwendolyn.
Not over the telephone.
In person.
We wanted her to explain why she had hidden our mother from us.
The next morning, I called her.
She answered with an irritated greeting.
"What is it now?"
"I want to come over."
"Why?"
"Because we need to talk."
"About what?"
"Sarah."
There was a long silence.
Then she said:
"I told you to stay away from that woman."
I felt my patience slipping.
"She's our mother."
"Don't call her that."
I gripped the phone.
"Why not?"
"Because you don't know what you're talking about."
"Then explain it."
She sighed.
"I have nothing to explain."
I looked at Grant.
He was standing beside the table.
"We're coming tomorrow."
"You're not welcome."
I took a breath.
"We'll come anyway. We deserve an honest conversation."
She hung up.
Grant looked at me.
"She won't tell us anything."
"Maybe she'll talk when she sees that we already know."
I wasn't sure.
But I was tired of allowing her anger to end every conversation.
That afternoon, I placed Sarah's photograph in a frame.
I put it beside Raymond's letter.
For the first time, the two people who had shaped the beginning of our lives were standing together in my apartment.
And I knew I couldn't return to believing the story Gwendolyn had given us.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: When We Returned to Gwendolyn’s House, She Looked at the Photograph and Realized Her Secret Was No Longer Safe
I Thought Bringing Her Birthday Flowers Might Finally Make Her See Me as Her Son
Part 9 of 20
