A week later, another envelope arrived.
It had no return address.
My name was written across the front in handwriting I didn't recognize.
I almost threw it away.
Then I noticed the words beneath my name.
“For the boys.”
I opened it at the kitchen table.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
There were no photographs this time.
Just three pages.
The first line read:
My name is Elaine. I was Simone's closest friend.
I sat down.
The letter explained that Elaine had known Simone during the final years of her illness.
She had known about the twins' father.
She had also known that Simone had tried to reach him.
According to Elaine, Simone had told her the man's name was David.
Not Joshua.
David.
Elaine wrote that Simone eventually discovered his real identity.
She had found his old employment information and realized he was married.
She had been furious.
But she hadn't wanted revenge.
She wanted him to acknowledge the boys.
The letter included dates.
Several dates.
Dates when Simone had tried to contact him.
Dates when he had promised to call.
Dates when he never did.
My hands trembled as I read.
The final page contained a sentence that stopped me cold.
Simone knew the boys' father had started another life, but she hoped he would eventually choose the children over his fear.
I put the letter down.
Joshua had always said he was afraid.
But fear didn't explain everything.
There had been opportunities.
Calls.
Messages.
Time.
I called Laura.
She asked me to bring the letter to her.
I did.
She read it twice.
“Do you know this woman?”
“No.”
“Have you spoken with her?”
“No.”
“Don't contact her yet.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to understand where this came from and whether the original can be authenticated.”
I agreed.
Then I called Joshua.
He answered after several rings.
“Did you know Simone had a friend named Elaine?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did she contact you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before Simone died.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked me to meet the boys.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Joshua breathed out.
“I couldn't.”
“You couldn't?”
“I was married.”
“So you chose your marriage.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
He didn't answer.
“Now you wanted the boys.”
“Yes.”
I laughed bitterly.
“So you were willing to claim them once you could do it without risking the marriage.”
“That isn't fair.”
“It is exactly fair.”
“I thought I had lost my chance.”
“You created that loss.”
He went quiet.
I looked at the letter on the table.
“Did Simone know you were Joshua?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know you had another name?”
“Yes.”
“Did she threaten to expose you?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“She could have.”
“She never did.”
“Why?”
“She wanted the boys to have a father.”
I closed my eyes.
Simone had been sick.
She had been raising two children.
And somehow she had still tried to protect their relationship with a man who had abandoned them.
I wondered how many nights she had sat awake with those same boys.
How many times she had looked at their faces and wondered whether their father would ever come.
The next weekend, I told the boys about Simone.
Not everything.
Just enough.
We sat on the floor with the photographs.
Felix asked questions.
“What did she like?”
“I don't know enough yet.”
“What was her favorite food?”
“I don't know.”
“Did she like books?”
“I think she did.”
Oscar touched the photograph.
“Can we know more?”
“Yes.”
I meant it.
That became the next thing I did.
I began searching through the material connected to the boys' early life.
With Laura's help, I requested the records that could legally be obtained.
There were gaps.
Some information was redacted.
Some records were incomplete.
But enough remained to show that Joshua had known more than he had admitted.
Then something unexpected appeared.
A copy of an old email.
It had been included in the agency's records.
The sender was Simone.
The recipient was an address belonging to Joshua.
The message was dated almost six years earlier.
I read it once.
Then again.
Simone had written that the boys were healthy.
She had written that they were learning to walk.
She had asked Joshua to come.
At the bottom, she had written:
You don't have to love me. You only have to show up for them.
I couldn't move.
Joshua had received that message.
He had kept it.
And he had never told me.
I called him.
When he answered, I said only one sentence.
“You received her email.”
He knew immediately.
“Yes.”
“You remembered it.”
“Yes.”
“You lied when you said you didn't know whether there had been opportunities to see them.”
“I didn't know what to do.”
“You knew exactly what she was asking.”
“I was afraid.”
“You always say that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “I was afraid that if I went to see them, I'd never be able to leave.”
My eyes burned.
“You should have stayed.”
“I know.”
“No. You should have stayed for them.”
He began crying.
I let him.
Not because I was trying to punish him.
Because there was nothing I could say that would make him understand what those missing years had cost.
Before ending the call, I asked one last question.
“Did you ever tell Simone about me?”
“No.”
That answer stayed with me.
Not because I expected him to have.
Because it confirmed something I had finally understood.
Joshua had kept two lives separate for as long as he could.
And when those lives finally collided, he had expected me to absorb the consequences.
I wasn't going to do that anymore.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The boys began asking about their mother, while Joshua finally admitted the decision that had changed all four of our lives
The adoption was supposed to fill the silence in our house, but my husband had already chosen two boys for reasons he refused to explain
Part 6 of 28
