“Twice.”
“That seems impossible.”
“I may have exaggerated once.”
I took Leo.
Dad stood.
Then something slipped from his coat pocket.
An envelope.
It landed face down.
I picked it up before Dad could.
My name was written across it in handwriting I recognized immediately.
My mother’s.
I stopped breathing for a second.
“Dad?”
He looked at the envelope.
“I found it two weeks ago.”
Mom had been dead eleven years.
“What is this?”
Dad’s voice softened.
“A letter she wrote before she died.”
My eyes filled.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“I was trying to decide whether I had the right.”
“The right?”
“She asked me to give it to you when you became a mother.”
I stared at the envelope.
Rowan came beside me.
Dad continued.
“I’d forgotten where she put it. After Leo was born, I searched the old study.”
My name looked impossibly familiar.
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