The blue sweater stayed on Iris's bedroom shelf.
She didn't put it in a drawer.
She placed it beside the hospital photograph.
Every morning, she looked at it.
Sometimes she touched the sleeve before leaving for school.
I didn't ask why.
I understood enough.
Daniel and Iris continued talking.
At first, it was only occasional messages.
Then they began having longer phone conversations.
He asked about her classes.
She told him about an assignment she was struggling with.
He offered to help if she needed it.
She told him about a school event.
He asked whether he could attend.
Iris said she would think about it.
I was grateful that he didn't pressure her.
One evening, she came downstairs while I was preparing dinner.
"Mom, can I ask you something?"
I turned off the stove.
"Of course."
She sat at the table.
"Did you ever tell anyone that Dad tried to contact us?"
I looked at her.
"No."
"Not even your friends?"
I shook my head.
"Not really."
She thought about that.
"Why?"
I put the spoon down.
"Because I was ashamed."
She looked surprised.
"Of what?"
"Of how things ended. Of the decisions I made. Of being unable to forgive him."
Iris looked at the table.
"Did you think people would judge you?"
"Maybe."
She nodded.
Then she asked whether I had ever told my parents.
I explained that my mother knew some of what had happened.
But she hadn't known about the letters.
I had kept that part to myself.
Iris looked toward the stairs.
"Grandma knew I had a father."
"Yes."
"Did she know who he was?"
I nodded.
"She knew his name."
"Did she ever ask why I didn't see him?"
"She did."
"What did you tell her?"
I looked down.
"That we had agreed it was better for you not to have contact."
Iris stared at me.
"But we hadn't agreed."
"No."
She leaned back.
I could see her trying to understand how many people had been given a version of the story that wasn't true.
I didn't want to defend myself.
There was nothing left to defend.
"Mom, I don't want to hate you."
I looked up quickly.
She continued.
"But I am angry."
I nodded.
"You have every right to be."
"I don't know how long I'll feel like this."
"You don't have to decide today."
She looked at me.
"Are you going to be angry if I get close to him?"
"No."
She waited.
I reached for her hand.
"I might need time to get used to everything. But I won't punish you for wanting to know your father."
She nodded.
Then she told me Daniel had invited her to have lunch the following week.
Just the two of them.
I said that sounded good.
She looked relieved.
"You're really okay with it?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
She went upstairs.
I remained at the table.
I thought about how easily I had once confused being needed with being loved.
For years, Iris had depended on me.
I had been her entire world.
And perhaps I had become afraid of the day she would no longer need me in the same way.
That fear had made me hold on too tightly.
Now I had to let her build relationships without treating them as a threat.
A few days later, Iris asked me whether I would help her find some old childhood photographs.
I agreed.
We took a box from the closet.
It contained school pictures, birthday photographs, and pictures from family trips.
She sat on the floor and went through them.
There were photographs of her first day of school.
Her seventh birthday.
Her first bicycle.
A summer afternoon when she had fallen asleep on the couch.
She stopped at one picture.
It showed her standing beside me in front of a birthday cake.
She was wearing the blue sweater I had remembered from her childhood.
"Look."
I smiled.
"You loved that sweater."
She studied the picture.
"Was Dad ever there for any of these?"
I shook my head.
"No."
She placed the photograph aside.
Then she found another.
It showed a little girl holding a drawing.
Iris looked at it for a long time.
"I wonder whether he would've liked my drawings."
I sat beside her.
"I think he would have."
She smiled faintly.
Then she asked whether I had any photographs of Daniel from before she was born.
I hesitated.
"There might be a few."
"Can we look?"
I nodded.
We went back to the wooden box.
There were two old photographs tucked beneath the letters.
One showed Daniel standing beside a car.
The other showed us sitting at a small restaurant.
Iris studied the second picture.
"You look happy."
I stared at it.
I did.
I had forgotten that version of myself.
Iris looked at me.
"Did you love him?"
The question was quiet.
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I nodded.
"Yes."
She looked at the photograph again.
"Did he love you?"
I swallowed.
"I believe he did."
She placed the picture beside the others.
For a while, we sat among the photographs.
Then Iris asked whether I would be willing to speak with Daniel again.
I looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you two pretending nothing happened."
I understood.
She wanted the truth to exist between all of us.
Not hidden behind separate conversations.
I told her I would consider it.
She nodded.
That evening, I sent Daniel a message.
I told him Iris was doing well.
Then I asked whether he would be willing to meet for a conversation.
He replied that he would.
He said he had wanted that too, but didn't want to push.
I put the phone down.
For the first time, I wasn't arranging a meeting because I wanted to control what Iris knew.
I was agreeing to one because she deserved a family that could speak honestly.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: Daniel and I Sat Across From Each Other After Eighteen Years, and the First Question He Asked Was Not About Himself but About the Daughter We Had Both Missed
I Thought My Daughter Finally Had the Perfect Night, Until Her Prom Date Walked Into Our House With Something to Say
Part 15 of 20
