Grant and I took the letters to my apartment.
We placed them on the table.
There were seven envelopes.
Each had a different date.
Some were written in Sarah's familiar handwriting.
Others contained short notes.
I opened the oldest one first.
It was dated shortly after Raymond died.
Sarah had written that she was sorry for our loss.
She said she knew how much Raymond loved us.
She hoped we were being cared for.
At the bottom, she asked whether she could send a card.
I looked at Grant.
"She knew Dad had died."
He nodded.
"She must have found out somehow."
I opened the next letter.
Sarah had written that she had tried calling the house.
Nobody had answered.
She said she didn't want to upset anyone.
She only wanted to know whether we were healthy.
The third letter was addressed to both of us.
It mentioned our birthdays.
Sarah had written that she hoped we still liked the things we had enjoyed as small children.
She remembered Grant's toy trucks.
She remembered my drawings.
I placed the letter beside the photograph.
Those details had stayed with her.
Even when we had forgotten them.
Grant opened another envelope.
His expression changed.
"What?"
He handed it to me.
The letter was shorter.
Sarah had written that she had been told the boys did not want contact.
I felt my chest tighten.
She had believed that someone had spoken for us.
She had also written that she would respect our wishes if that was truly what we wanted.
But she asked that we be allowed to decide for ourselves when we were old enough.
I read the final paragraph.
Then I put the letter down.
Gwendolyn had known we were not old enough to make that decision.
She had made it for us anyway.
Grant pushed his chair back.
"I can't believe she let us think this."
I looked at him.
"I know."
He walked toward the window.
For a while, he stood there without speaking.
Then he returned to the table.
"We should show these to Sarah."
I agreed.
We called her.
She was happy to hear from us.
When we explained that we had found more letters, she became quiet.
"She kept them?"
"Yes."
Sarah took a breath.
"I wondered where they had gone."
We arranged to visit her the following day.
When we arrived, she was waiting with coffee.
I handed her the letters.
She recognized each envelope.
Her fingers moved slowly over the dates.
"I remember writing these."
She opened one.
Then another.
She didn't seem surprised by their contents.
She simply looked sad.
"Did you ever think about giving up?" I asked.
Sarah looked at me.
"Sometimes I was exhausted."
She placed the letter down.
"But I never stopped loving you."
Grant sat beside her.
"Why didn't you try harder to find us?"
Sarah looked at him for a long time.
"I did try. I was told that making contact would cause problems for you. I was also told that your father wanted you to have a peaceful life."
I frowned.
"Did Dad actually say that?"
"Raymond wanted you to have a peaceful life. He never wanted you to forget me."
I nodded.
That sounded like the man we remembered.
Sarah explained that she had been afraid of making our situation worse.
She had believed that if she pushed too hard, Gwendolyn might become even more hostile.
She had also trusted Raymond to help.
Then he died.
After that, she felt she had no way to reach us.
I looked at the letters.
"Did you ever consider coming to our school?"
Sarah nodded.
"More than once."
"Why didn't you?"
"I was told you wouldn't recognize me."
She smiled sadly.
"At the time, I thought perhaps that was true."
I looked down.
I remembered school events.
The empty chairs.
The photographs with only Grant and me.
I wondered whether Sarah had ever stood outside the school gates.
Whether she had watched us from a distance.
Whether she had gone home carrying another letter she couldn't send.
I asked whether she had ever received anything from us.
Sarah shook her head.
"Not directly."
I looked at Grant.
He remembered making birthday cards for Gwendolyn.
I remembered writing letters to Raymond when he was away at work.
But neither of us remembered writing to Sarah.
There was no reason we would have.
We hadn't known she existed.
Sarah reached for my hand.
"I don't expect you to make up for lost years."
I looked at her.
"I don't know how to do that."
"You don't have to."
She smiled gently.
"We can start with today."
Those words stayed with me.
For years, I had thought family meant staying loyal to the people who raised you, no matter how they treated you.
Now I was beginning to understand that love did not have to be earned through silence.
We spent the afternoon looking through photographs.
Sarah showed us pictures from our earliest years.
She remembered small details.
The first time Grant walked.
The way I used to hold a spoon.
A birthday when we both refused to eat our vegetables.
Some memories made us laugh.
Others made Sarah cry.
At one point, she showed us a small box containing two matching children's bracelets.
They were simple.
One had a tiny blue bead.
The other had a red one.
"I bought these for you before the adoption," she said.
Grant picked up the red bracelet.
"Why did you keep them?"
Sarah smiled.
"Because I always hoped I would see you wearing them."
I held the blue one.
It was too small for my wrist now.
But I couldn't put it down.
When we left, Sarah gave us the photographs and asked us to bring copies back next time.
She didn't want the originals to disappear.
I understood.
We had already lost enough things.
On the drive home, Grant held the red bracelet in his palm.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he said:
"I wish we had known her."
I looked out the window.
"So do I."
We had no way to recover the birthdays.
No way to return the school years.
No way to give Sarah the childhood moments she had missed.
But we could stop pretending they hadn't mattered.
And we could begin building something honest from the years we still had.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: When Gwendolyn Asked Us to Forgive Her, We Finally Understood That Knowing the Truth Was Not the Same as Healing From It
I Thought Bringing Her Birthday Flowers Might Finally Make Her See Me as Her Son
Part 15 of 20
