So I simply sat beside him and held his hand.
Eventually, he stood.
And we went.
—NEXT PAGE
Rachel and David met us in their living room.
Rachel looked nervous.
David looked ashamed.
That told me something before anyone even spoke.
The first ten minutes were painful.
Awkward conversation.
Everyone carefully avoiding the real reason we were there.
Luke sat beside me completely rigid.
Then Rachel suddenly stood and went upstairs.
She returned carrying a plastic storage container.
She placed it on the coffee table.
“What is that?” Luke asked.
“Letters.”
Her voice cracked.
She opened the lid.
The container was full.
Envelope after envelope.
And written across every one, in a child’s handwriting, was Luke’s name.
Luke picked one up.
His hand shook.
“She wrote back?”
Rachel began crying.
“Yes.”
“All this time?”
“Yes.”
Luke stared at her.
“She answered me?”
“Every time.”
His voice rose.
“Then why didn’t I get them?”
Rachel wiped her face.
“At first, we were advised that limiting contact might help Emma settle.”
She struggled with the next words.
“She kept answering your letters anyway.”
Luke looked down at the box.
“We kept telling ourselves we would send them once she felt more secure.”
Rachel shook her head.
“Then too much time passed.”
David finally spoke.
“We should have fixed it years ago.”
He looked at Luke.
“We told ourselves we were protecting Emma.”
His voice thickened.
“But really, we were avoiding a difficult conversation.”
Luke wasn’t listening anymore.
He had opened one of the letters.
The paper shook in his hands.
Then a door opened upstairs.
—NEXT PAGE
