She answered on the fourth ring.
“You kept this for ten years.”
“I know.”
“Don’t say that like it makes sense.”
She went quiet.
“Meet me,” I said.
The next day, Trudy was waiting in the back booth of a small diner.
I placed the photograph between us.
“You took care of Teagan?”
“For part of that day.”
“Then why did she give you this letter?”
“She was scared,” Trudy said. “She didn’t think she was going to die, Elizabeth. She was eighteen and about to have a baby.”
That mattered.
Teagan hadn’t written the letter because she knew she was leaving us.
She had simply been frightened.
Trudy continued.
“She told me that if something went wrong and the boy didn’t come, I should give the letter to you.”
I pointed to the photograph.
“Is that him?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Then what do you know?”
Trudy swallowed.
“He came.”
I froze.
“What?”
“After Teagan died, I saw a young man near the maternity floor asking for her.”
“You spoke to him?”
“No. At first, I didn’t realize who he was. Then I looked at him carefully and remembered Teagan’s description.”
My pulse quickened.
“What happened?”
“He saw you.”
“Doing what?”
“Leaving with Lucas.”
“And?”
“He left.”
I stared at her.
“You watched him walk away?”
“Yes.”
“And then you kept my daughter’s letter?”
Tears filled Trudy’s eyes.
“I told myself you already had enough grief.”
“You made that decision for me.”
“Yes.”
“You made it for Lucas too.”
“Yes.”
My anger became cold.
“So why now?”
Trudy looked down.
“I retired a few months ago. Once I stopped telling myself I was still protecting a patient, I had to admit I was really protecting myself.”
I stood.
“Ten years is a long time to hide behind one bad decision.”
Then I walked out.
The following afternoon, I opened a storage box filled with Teagan’s things.
School programs.
Photos.
A cheap silver bracelet she wore almost every day.
Then I found another photograph of the same boy.
Same face.
Same baseball glove.
Beneath it was a torn notebook page.
Buy diapers.
Finish thank-you cards.
Ask Mom about night classes.
Tell Mom.
I stared at the final words.
Tell Mom.
She had planned to tell me.
She thought there would be time.
“Grandma?”
Lucas stood in the doorway.
He saw the open box and sat beside me.
“Is that Mom’s stuff?”
“Yes.”
I gave him an old school photo.
He smiled.
“I look like her.”
“You have her eyebrows.”
“And her nose?”
“And her nose.”
Then he noticed the boy’s picture.
“Who’s that?”
“Nobody.”
The answer came too quickly.
Lucas frowned.
“Then why did Mom keep his picture?”
I said nothing.
He looked at me.
“That lady told you something, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“About my dad?”
“I’m trying to understand everything first. Once I do, I’ll tell you.”
Lucas stared at me.
“You always tell me not to hide things because I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“So are you hiding something?”
“Yes.”
His honesty deserved mine.
“I need a little time. But I won’t leave you wondering forever.”
He nodded.
Not happily.
But he nodded.
And now I had no excuse not to find the truth.
An old school program gave me the boy’s first name.
After several wrong profiles, I finally found him online.
I sent one message.
My name is Elizabeth. I’m Teagan’s mother. I need to speak with you.
Two hours later, he replied with one word.
Lucas?
He knew the name.
We met the following morning.
He was already sitting at a café table, slowly turning his coffee cup in small circles.
Exactly the way he had done at my kitchen table ten years earlier.
“You knew Lucas’s name.”
“Teagan told me.”
“Then you knew about him.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come?”
