Grandpa explained that after Caleb’s mother died, William—Caleb’s father—began pursuing my mother. When Sarah refused him, William fired her and ensured no decent family in the county would hire her again. My mother packed us into the car that week, and we never spoke of them again.
I stood up, gripping the porch railing. “If he was just cruel… why did Caleb stay with me for two years? Why did he turn up at that bookstore like he already knew me?”
Grandpa didn’t have an answer. But I knew I needed to find one myself.
That night, after putting Nora to sleep, I pulled my mother’s cedar box from the back of my closet. Beneath old scarves lay a photograph of me at four on a red bicycle, standing beside a dark-haired boy with mismatched eyes. Underneath were bundles of letters.
The earliest letters were written in a child’s careful print: “Dear Sarah, where did the little girl go? Did she take her bicycle? Please write back. Caleb.”
Later letters showed a teenager tucking saved allowance bills inside, begging my mother to use them for me. And on the back of the final letter, in my mother’s slanted script, were five words that shattered my doubts: “He isn’t like his father.”
Facing the Truth
At sunrise, I strapped Nora into her car seat and drove straight to the address on the oldest envelope.
An older man opened the door—thinner than I imagined, but those eyes told me everything. “You look exactly like your mother,” William said coldly.
“I need to speak with Caleb,” I demanded, holding Nora tighter.
“Caleb isn’t available. Please get off my porch.”
