The hardest part for Joshua wasn't seeing the boys.
It was watching them grow.
Every new milestone reminded him of the years he had missed.
The first day of school.
The first lost tooth.
The first bicycle ride.
The first time Felix wrote his name without help.
The first time Oscar slept through the night without his rabbit.
He was there now.
But he couldn't go backward.
I think that finally began to change him.
One evening, he asked whether he could take the boys to the beach.
They had been talking about it for weeks.
I agreed.
The next weekend, they went.
When they returned, Oscar had sand in his shoes.
Felix had a shell collection.
Joshua looked exhausted.
“Best day?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
He handed me a photograph.
It showed the boys standing beside the water.
They were laughing.
Behind them, the ocean stretched toward the horizon.
I looked at the picture.
“Beautiful.”
Joshua nodded.
“I kept thinking about Simone.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“She loved the ocean.”
I remembered the photograph Marianne had shown us.
Simone on the beach.
“You knew that?”
“She told me.”
I looked again at the boys.
“They were there.”
“Yes.”
Joshua sat down.
“I kept thinking about how much she would have wanted to see them like that.”
“She would have.”
He nodded.
“I wish she had.”
There was no bitterness in his voice.
Only grief.
I understood then that Joshua had finally stopped trying to escape his past.
He was living with it.
That was different.
A few days later, he asked me something unexpected.
“Would you come with us to Simone's grave?”
I hesitated.
“Why?”
“The boys asked where she was buried.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
We went on a Sunday.
Marianne met us there.
The boys carried flowers.
Felix asked why everyone was quiet.
I told him we were remembering someone.
He nodded.
They placed the flowers at the grave.
Oscar looked at the name.
“That's Mommy.”
“Yes.”
Joshua stood behind them.
He touched the stone.
“I should have been here years ago,” he whispered.
I heard him.
The boys didn't.
Marianne did.
She stepped closer.
“You are here now.”
Joshua looked at her.
“That doesn't erase it.”
“No.”
She nodded.
“But you don't have to pretend it doesn't matter.”
He swallowed.
“I don't.”
The boys began asking questions about what Simone had been like.
Marianne told them stories.
I listened.
Joshua listened too.
It was the first time all of us stood together around Simone's memory without the past being treated as something dangerous.
The boys weren't old enough to understand the affair.
They didn't need to.
They only needed to know that their mother loved them.
When we left the cemetery, Felix held Joshua's hand.
Oscar held mine.
Marianne walked beside us.
For a moment, the four adults' histories seemed less important than the two children between us.
That evening, Joshua called me.
“I need to tell you something.”
I sighed.
“What now?”
“I received a letter from Simone's attorney.”
I sat down.
“What kind?”
“A notice about the original letter.”
“What does it say?”
“It says the sealed letter is still being held.”
“I know.”
“But there was an instruction attached.”
“What instruction?”
“If either boy asks for the letter before eighteen, the attorney is supposed to notify both parents.”
I nodded.
“That seems reasonable.”
“There is another part.”
I waited.
“If one parent attempts to access the original without the other parent being informed, the attorney is supposed to report it.”
I looked at the history box.
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don't know.”
“Joshua.”
He was silent.
“Did you try to get it?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I believed him.
He continued.
“I think Simone anticipated someone might try.”
“Someone?”
“I don't know.”
That night, I checked the box.
Everything was still there.
Photographs.
Recordings.
Letters.
Copies.
Nothing was missing.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that the history we had uncovered might not be finished.
The next morning, Laura called.
“I received a message from Robert Hale.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
“He says someone contacted his office asking about Simone's sealed documents.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn't tell me yet.”
“Why?”
“Because he says he needs to verify the identity.”
I stared out the window.
“Do you think it's Joshua?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Joshua's attorney would have handled that formally.”
“Then who?”
“I don't know.”
That was the problem.
For months, the secrets had all led back to Joshua.
Now there was a possibility that someone else had been watching the same history.
Someone else knew about the boys.
Someone else knew about Simone.
Someone else wanted access to the letter.
That afternoon, I called Marianne.
“Did Simone have enemies?”
Marianne laughed softly.
“No.”
“Anyone who might have wanted something from her?”
She paused.
“Not that I know.”
“Did she owe anyone money?”
“No.”
“Did she have another relationship?”
“No.”
“Then who would want her records?”
“I don't know.”
I looked toward the boys.
They were building a tower from wooden blocks.
“Neither do I.”
That night, Joshua came over.
We sat at the kitchen table after the boys went to bed.
“I don't want you frightened,” he said.
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“I've had worse.”
He smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
Then he became serious.
“If someone is trying to access Simone's records, we should know why.”
I nodded.
“I agree.”
For the first time since the divorce, we were facing a problem together without pretending we were still a couple.
That difference mattered.
We weren't rebuilding our marriage.
We were building a safer future for the boys.
And whatever waited inside those sealed records, we would face it honestly.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: The stranger asking about Simone’s records finally revealed a missing piece, and suddenly Joshua’s oldest secret was no longer the only mystery
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 15 of 28
