“And Dad?”
“Yes?”
“If Mom calls Hannah, visits her, or goes near Lucas before I understand what happened, I will not handle it quietly.”
“I understand.”
I hung up before he could say more.
A minute later, the visitor log arrived.
A scanned page. Blurry but readable.
HANNAH PARKER.
Four entries.
The first two marked WAITING AREA ONLY.
The third marked DENIED BY FAMILY REQUEST.
The fourth entry had a note beside it.
PATIENT AWAKE. VISITOR LEFT LETTER WITH NURSE.
I stood so suddenly the chair scraped backward.
Visitor left letter with nurse.
Hannah had left me a letter.
I had never received it.
The next morning, I arrived at the coffee shop forty minutes early. I sat outside with two coffees cooling on the table and the visitor log folded in my pocket. Every car that turned into the lot made my pulse jump.
When Hannah’s silver hatchback appeared, I stood.
Lucas tumbled out holding a small backpack and his rescue plane. Hannah followed, guarded but present.
“You came,” Lucas said.
“I did.”
He nodded, as if filing that under evidence.
Hannah sat across from me while Lucas drew airplanes with crayons the barista brought out. Morning sunlight moved over the table, catching the tired shadows beneath her eyes.
“I talked to my father,” I said.
She went still.
I handed her the visitor log.
She read it once. Then again. Her fingers pressed to the fourth entry.
“I wrote you a letter that day,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“They said they would give it to you when you were stronger.”
“I never got it.”
She closed her eyes.
Lucas looked up. “Mom?”
“I’m okay.”
He frowned. “That means not okay.”
She reached across and squeezed his hand. “A little not okay.”
I turned to Hannah. “What was in the letter?”
Her eyes opened, wet and steady.
“I told you I was scared. I told you I loved you. I told you your mother had offered money, but I wasn’t taking it. I told you I would wait until you could tell me yourself what you wanted.”