Iris didn't go to bed immediately.
She stayed on the couch long after Ryan had left.
The old photograph remained beside her.
The three letters were arranged in front of her, and the small piece of paper with the phone number sat underneath her phone.
I offered to make her something to eat.
She shook her head.
"I'm not hungry."
I didn't push.
She looked exhausted.
Her makeup had begun to fade, and a few strands of hair had fallen loose around her face.
The beautiful dress she had spent weeks preparing for was still on her.
But prom was no longer what she was thinking about.
"Do you want to change?"
She nodded.
I helped her carry the dress upstairs.
At her bedroom door, she stopped.
"Mom?"
I turned.
"Yes?"
"Can I keep the letters tonight?"
"Of course."
She held the envelopes against her chest.
Then she went inside.
I stood in the hallway for a moment.
I could hear her moving around.
A drawer opened.
Something fell.
Then the door closed.
I returned downstairs.
The house looked exactly as it had before.
The flowers Ryan had brought were still in the vase.
The glass of water was still on the coffee table.
But everything had changed.
I picked up the photograph.
I studied the young man standing beside my hospital bed.
He looked nervous.
His hand rested near the blanket.
I remembered how carefully he had touched Iris's tiny fingers.
I remembered his smile.
And I remembered how quickly my anger had returned.
I had spent years telling myself that I was the only one who had been hurt.
That was easier than admitting he might have been hurt too.
I put the photograph back.
Then I went upstairs.
Iris was sitting on her bed.
She had changed into an old T-shirt and pajama pants.
The dress was hanging over the back of a chair.
The letters were spread across her blanket.
She was reading the second one again.
I knocked softly.
"Can I come in?"
She nodded.
I sat beside her.
For a while, we didn't speak.
Then she pointed to a sentence.
"He asked whether I had your eyes."
I looked at the letter.
"Yes."
She gave a small, sad smile.
"Did I?"
I looked at her face.
"Very much."
She studied the handwriting.
"Do you remember what he was like?"
I nodded.
"He could be funny."
"What else?"
"He was patient with people."
She looked up.
"Was he patient with you?"
I thought about it.
"Sometimes."
She waited.
I knew she wanted an honest answer.
"Sometimes we were both too stubborn."
She nodded.
Then she looked at the photograph again.
"I wonder whether he remembers this day."
"I'm sure he does."
She didn't respond.
After a moment, she asked whether I thought he had another family.
I told her I didn't know.
She asked whether he had married.
Again, I didn't know.
She asked whether he had other children.
I couldn't answer that either.
Each question made the distance between what I knew and what I had allowed her to know seem larger.
Finally, she put the letter down.
"I don't know where to start."
I reached for her hand.
"Start wherever you want."
She looked at me.
"Can I ask you something without you getting upset?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever miss him?"
I looked toward the window.
There were nights when I had remembered him.
There were mornings when something small had reminded me of him.
A song.
A familiar smell.
A place we used to visit.
I had missed parts of our life together.
But I had never allowed myself to say that out loud.
"Yes," I answered.
Iris looked surprised.
"Even after everything?"
"Even after everything."
She lowered her eyes.
"I wish you had told me."
I nodded.
"So do I."
That night, she kept the letters beside her pillow.
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ryan standing in the living room.
Five minutes.
That was what he had given me.
But the truth had taken much longer to reach my daughter.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee.
Iris was already downstairs.
She was sitting at the kitchen table.
Her phone was beside her.
The folded paper with the number was in front of her.
I poured coffee into my cup.
"Morning."
"Morning."
I sat across from her.
She looked nervous.
"Did you sleep?"
"A little."
"Me too."
She touched the folded paper.
"Mom, I think I want to call him."
My hand stopped around the coffee cup.
I nodded.
"Okay."
She looked at me carefully.
"Are you really okay with that?"
I took a breath.
"I'm scared, but I won't stop you."
She looked down.
Then she unfolded the paper.
Her finger moved over the number.
She didn't press anything.
Not yet.
Instead, she asked me one more question.
"Will you tell me the rest of what happened between you two before I call?"
I looked at my daughter.
And I knew that whatever happened next, I couldn't leave another part of the story buried.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: Before My Daughter Dialed the Number on That Small Piece of Paper, I Finally Told Her the Part of Our Past I Had Been Too Ashamed to Admit
I Thought My Daughter Finally Had the Perfect Night, Until Her Prom Date Walked Into Our House With Something to Say
Part 9 of 20
