I looked at him.
“And what did he discover?”
Richard hesitated.
“Your father had been intercepting the mail.”
Silence.
The alley suddenly felt too small.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Richard didn’t argue.
He simply opened another folder.
Inside were photographs.
My father standing at a mailbox.
My father carrying envelopes into the house.
My father shredding papers.
My father throwing something into a trash bin.
The dates were printed beneath every photograph.
Six years ago.
Five years ago.
Four years ago.
Three.
Two.
One.
My hands began to tremble.
“He knew,” I whispered.
“He knew your grandfather was trying to reach you.”
Richard nodded.
“And he made sure you never knew.”
I looked away.
For eighteen years, I had believed my grandfather had abandoned us.
I had spent birthdays wondering why I had no grandparents.
I had told myself maybe he didn’t want me.
