You have made your position clear regarding the child. My daughter is too vulnerable to understand what kind of man you are, but I do. You will not be allowed to disrupt her life whenever you feel guilty about your choices.
My mother stopped reading.
Robert’s face darkened.
“Your mother hated me.”
“She didn’t know you,” Denise replied.
“She knew enough.”
Denise continued:
If you truly wish to be involved, you will need to demonstrate that your intentions are sincere. Until then, I advise you to stay away.
At the bottom was Evelyn’s signature.
Robert shook his head.
“I never received this.”
Marcus examined the envelope.
“It was never mailed.”
“How do you know?”
“The postage is missing, and the return address was never completed.”
Robert looked at Denise.
“So your mother wrote letters pretending to speak for you?”
“We need to know whether she actually sent any of them,” Daniel said.
My mother lifted another envelope.
This one was addressed to Marcus.
She read the first few lines silently, then covered her mouth.
“What?” I asked.
She handed it to me:
Marcus,
You have always been a good man, but goodness can become dangerous when it allows people to avoid consequences. Denise has made choices she must live with. You cannot keep rescuing her from every difficult decision.
I looked at Marcus.
He took the letter and read it slowly.
The expression on his face changed with every sentence:
If you truly love the child, you will not make yourself her father before her mother has settled the question of who that father is. You may believe you are helping, but you are making it easier for Denise to hide behind you.
At the bottom, Evelyn had written: I will make sure the truth comes out when the time is right.
Marcus sat down.
“I never saw this.”
Denise shook her head.
“Neither did I.”
Robert gave a humorless laugh.
“Perhaps she didn’t want any of us to see them.”
We searched the remaining envelopes.
Some were unfinished letters. Others were drafts of messages that had never been sent. Several contained notes about money, custody, and the paternity test.
Then I found a small black notebook tucked into the folder’s inner pocket.
My grandmother’s handwriting filled its pages.
Most entries were ordinary: grocery lists, appointments, reminders to call relatives. But one page, dated October 16, 1999, contained a paragraph that made my hands go cold:
The baby is healthy, thank God. Denise is exhausted. Marcus stayed through the night. Robert finally signed the paperwork, but he still refuses to accept responsibility. Denise says she may never tell him what happened between her and Marcus. I fear the truth will ruin them all.
Below that was another entry, written three days later: I spoke to Robert today. He believes Denise has been unfaithful. I told him that if he wanted the child, he would have to prove he could be a father. He became angry and said he would not be manipulated.
I turned the page.
The next entry was dated November 2: I have made a terrible mistake. I sent the wrong letter to the wrong man.
My breath caught.
“What does that mean?”
Denise took the notebook from me.
She read the line, then flipped to the next page: The letter intended for Robert was delivered to Marcus. The letter intended for Marcus was delivered to Robert. By the time I discovered the mistake, both men had already reacted. I should have corrected it immediately, but I feared what would happen if they confronted one another.
Marcus stood abruptly.
“That’s impossible.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The letter I wrote to Robert was mailed in 2002. Your grandmother’s note is from 1999.”
He reached for the notebook and examined the entries.
“She may have made the mistake with other letters, but this doesn’t explain the one Robert received.”
Daniel leaned over the page.
“Keep reading.”
I turned to the next entry: I have decided not to interfere again. Denise and Marcus have married, and Aaliyah is thriving. Robert has made his choices. Perhaps the best thing I can do now is let the child grow up in peace.
The entry was dated 2003.
Three years before Robert’s first recorded attempt to visit me.
I looked at my mother.
“Did Grandma ever tell you she was sending letters to Robert?”
“No.”
“Did she ever tell you she had contacted him?”
“No.”
Robert rubbed his forehead.
“I knew your grandmother disliked me, but I never imagined she’d interfere like this.”
I studied the notebook.
Something didn’t fit.
