So did we.
That evening, we opened the last box from my mother’s apartment. It held a few onesies, a bottle warmer, and a stack of envelopes from the shower. Most were empty, but one had slipped beneath the cardboard flap, unopened.
Emily smiled. “You missed one.”
I picked it up.
The envelope had my name on it, written in handwriting I did not recognize at first because I had not seen it in years.
Ethan.
No last name. Just Ethan.
My smile faded.
Emily noticed. “What is it?”
I turned the envelope over. It was sealed. No return address.
“Ethan?” she asked.
I sat on the edge of the crib mattress, though I knew I probably shouldn’t put weight there. My hands had gone cold.
“This handwriting,” I said slowly. “I think it’s my father’s.”
Emily became very still.
My father had left when I was twelve.
That was the story my mother told. He walked out. He chose himself. He never looked back. She built my childhood around that version until it became a family law. We did not ask about him. We did not mention him. We did not wonder.
I opened the envelope carefully.
Inside was not a card.
It was a letter, folded twice, and a photograph.
The photo showed my father standing outside a diner, older than I remembered but unmistakable. Beside him stood a woman I did not know. Between them was a boy of about ten with my eyes.
My heart began to pound.
Emily lowered herself into the rocking chair. “Read it.”
I unfolded the letter.
Ethan,
I don’t know whether this will reach you. I gave it to your mother after I heard from Brittany that you and Emily were expecting a son. She told me you wanted nothing from me, and maybe that’s true. But I need you to know I did not leave the way you were told.
I have tried to contact you for years.
There is something your mother never told you.
My hands tightened around the page.
Emily whispered my name, but I could barely hear her over the sudden roaring in my ears.
The next line was only seven words.
You have a brother, and he needs you.