I was looking for an old photo album with pictures of my parents.
I sat cross-legged on the floor and flipped through pictures of my dad when he was younger. He looked so happy.
In one photo, he was holding a woman — my biological mother.
“Hi,” I whispered. I felt a little silly talking to a piece of paper, but mostly, it felt right.
I turned another page and stopped.
There was a photo of Dad standing outside the hospital. He was holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a pale blanket. Me.
I turned another page and stopped.
He looked absolutely terrified and incredibly proud all at once.
I wanted that photo.
I carefully slid it out of the plastic sleeve. As I pulled it free, something else slipped out from behind it. It was a thin piece of paper, folded twice.
My name was written on the front in Dad’s handwriting.
My hands started shaking as I unfolded the paper.
It was a thin piece of paper, folded twice.
It was a letter, dated the day before he died.
I read it… Tears ran down my cheeks.
I read it again, and my heart didn’t simply break; it shattered.
Dad’s accident had happened in the late afternoon. I’d always been told he was just driving home from work. A normal commute. A random event.
But he wasn’t just “driving home.”
It was a letter, dated the day before he died.
“No,” I whispered. My voice sounded hollow. “No, no, no.”
I folded the letter and walked downstairs.
I found Meredith in the kitchen, helping my brother with homework. Her soft smile dropped when she saw my face.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice sharp with worry.
I held out the letter. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes dropped to the paper. The color drained out of her cheeks.
I folded the letter and walked downstairs.
“Where did you find that?” she whispered.
“In the photo album. Where you hid it.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. She looked like she had been bracing for this exact second for 14 years.
“Go finish your math upstairs, honey,” Meredith told my brother. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
He gathered his books and headed up.
Once he was gone, I cleared my throat and started reading the letter aloud.
“Where did you find that?”
“My sweet girl, if you’re old enough to read this on your own, then you’re old enough to know where you came from. I don’t ever want your story to live only in my memory. Memories fade. Paper doesn’t.
The day you were born was the most beautiful and the hardest day of my life. Your mom — your biological one — was braver than I’ve ever been. She held you for just a minute. She kissed your forehead and said, ‘She has your eyes.’
I didn’t understand then that I would have to be enough for both of us.”
I don’t ever want your story to live only in my memory.
“For a long time, it was just you and me, and I worried every day that I wasn’t doing it right.
Then Meredith walked into our lives. I wonder if you remember that first drawing you made for her. I hope so. She kept it in her purse for weeks. She still has it today.
If there ever comes a time when you feel caught between loving your first mom and loving Meredith, don’t. Hearts don’t split. They grow.”
I took a deep breath. The next part was the hardest because it contained the truth about Dad’s death.
I worried every day that I wasn’t doing it right.
