The wooden box was exactly where I had left it.
Behind two old blankets.
Under a stack of photographs.
It wasn't large.
It had once belonged to my mother.
She had given it to me when I moved into the house.
I used to keep small things inside it.
A bracelet.
Old birthday cards.
A hospital photograph from the day Iris was born.
And the letters.
I pulled the box out and placed it on my bed.
For a moment, I simply stared at it.
I had imagined this day many times.
I had imagined Iris discovering the truth.
I had imagined her crying.
I had imagined her becoming angry.
But I had never imagined that the person who would bring everything to the surface would be a boy who had arrived at my front door carrying flowers.
I opened the lid.
The letters were tied together with a faded ribbon.
There were three envelopes.
The first was the one I had just read.
The second was dated several weeks later.
The third was older than I remembered.
I picked them up.
The paper felt fragile.
I carried the box downstairs.
Iris was sitting on the couch.
Ryan had moved to the armchair.
Neither of them was speaking.
When Iris saw the box, she stood up.
"Is that everything?"
"Everything I kept."
She looked at the ribbon.
"Can I read them?"
I nodded.
"Of course."
She reached for the first envelope.
I handed it to her.
Her fingers moved over the handwriting.
She looked at the name.
Then she opened it.
I watched her read.
At first, her expression was calm.
Then her eyebrows drew together.
She read the first page again.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"He says he tried calling you."
I looked down.
"He did."
"Why didn't you answer?"
I sat on the edge of the chair.
"At the time, I couldn't bear hearing his voice."
She looked at the letter.
"He says he left several messages."
I nodded.
"Yes."
Iris kept reading.
The letter explained that he had wanted to speak with me.
He wanted to know whether I needed anything.
He asked whether I had found a place to live.
He mentioned the baby.
He even asked whether I had chosen a name.
Iris looked up.
"He wanted to know my name."
"Yes."
She looked back down.
I could see her trying to understand something that had been missing from her life.
A father who had wanted to know about her.
A man whose name she had barely heard.
A person who might have been part of her childhood if things had gone differently.
She moved to the second letter.
This one was longer.
The date was several weeks later.
She read it slowly.
Then she stopped.
"What does this mean?"
I looked at the page.
"Which part?"
She pointed to a sentence.
"He says he went to the hospital."
I nodded.
"He did."
Iris looked confused.
"When?"
"The day you were born."
She stared at me.
"Was he there?"
I closed my eyes.
"Yes."
She stood up.
"Wait. He was at the hospital?"
I nodded again.
"Yes."
"And you told me he wasn't around."
I couldn't defend myself.
She placed the letter on the table.
"Did I meet him?"
I looked at her.
"You were a baby."
"That's not what I asked."
I took a breath.
"Yes. You saw him."
Her eyes filled again.
"Do you have a picture?"
I nodded toward the wooden box.
"There's one inside."
She immediately reached into it.
She moved aside the ribbon and the remaining envelopes.
Then she found the photograph.
It was small.
The corners had turned yellow.
The picture showed me sitting in a hospital bed.
I looked exhausted.
A blanket covered my legs.
In my arms was a tiny baby.
Beside the bed stood a young man.
He was holding the edge of the blanket.
His face was turned toward the baby.
Iris stared at the photograph.
She didn't move.
"That's him?"
I nodded.
She brought the photograph closer.
"That's my father?"
"Yes."
She studied his face.
Then she looked at me.
"Why did you never show me this?"
I couldn't answer.
She looked down again.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she noticed something written on the back.
She turned the photograph over.
The handwriting was the same as the letters.
A short sentence.
A date.
And a name.
Iris read it quietly.
"She's beautiful."
Her voice broke.
I looked away.
I remembered that day.
The hospital room.
The smell of disinfectant.
The tiny bracelet around Iris's wrist.
The man standing beside my bed.
He had looked at our daughter as though he couldn't believe she was real.
I had been angry with him.
I had been hurt.
But for a few minutes, even I had forgotten everything else.
Then the argument had started again.
And I had asked him to leave.
Iris looked at me.
"Did he hold me?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
She pressed the photograph against her chest.
"How long?"
"I don't remember."
She looked at the picture again.
"Did he come back?"
I took a breath.
"He tried."
She turned sharply.
"What?"
I reached for the third envelope.
"This one came later."
She accepted it.
The date was several months after Iris's birth.
The envelope was unopened.
Iris looked at me.
"You never read this?"
I shook my head.
"I couldn't."
She stared at me.
"Why?"
"Because I was afraid it would change everything."
She looked down at the envelope.
Then she carefully opened it.
She removed the letter.
There were only a few paragraphs.
She read the first line.
Then the second.
Her expression became unreadable.
She reached the end.
And then she looked at me.
"He asked to see me again."
I nodded.
"Yes."
"Did you let him?"
"No."
She looked at the paper.
"He says he was waiting for an answer."
I didn't speak.
"He says he didn't want to fight with you."
I looked at my hands.
"That's what he wrote."
Iris sat down slowly.
The photograph remained in her hand.
Ryan finally spoke.
"Iris, I think you should take your time."
She looked at him.
"I've been taking my time my whole life."
He nodded.
She looked back at the letters.
Then she asked me something that made my heart sink.
"Mom, is there anything else?"
I looked at the wooden box.
There were no more letters.
But there were other things.
Things I had not yet explained.
And I knew the next conversation would be harder than the last.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: My Daughter Asked Whether Her Father Had Ever Tried to Find Her Again, and I Could No Longer Hide Behind the Excuses I Had Used for Years
I Thought My Daughter Finally Had the Perfect Night, Until Her Prom Date Walked Into Our House With Something to Say
Part 6 of 20
