At thirty, I thought you might be dead.
At forty-eight, I learned you were a retired carpenter in Minnesota who grew too many tomatoes.
That was better than all my imaginary versions.
I had to stop reading.
Dad nodded for me to continue.
Rebecca wrote that Mom had found her through the adoption agency after laws changed enough to make contact possible.
Their first meeting had been awkward.
Their second lasted five hours.
After that came phone calls.
Christmas cards.
Occasional lunches.
Mom told Rebecca about me.
About Dad.
About the garden.
But Rebecca had not been ready to meet us.
She had loving adoptive parents.
She had children.
A life.
Finding Mom had already rearranged her sense of herself.
She feared another family might pull too hard at the threads.
Then Mom died.
Rebecca regretted waiting.
She began planning to contact Dad.
But she became ill.
Ovarian cancer.
By the time she finally decided to come, she was too weak.
