“He’s alive. He’s going to need you.”
My daughter never came home.
My grandson did.
For ten years, it was just the two of us.
Lucas grew into a sweet, curious boy who loved baseball, Sunday pancakes, and one question I couldn’t answer.
“He’s alive. He’s going to need you.”
“Grandma, who was my dad?”
“I don’t know.”
Now I had Teagan’s letter in my coat pocket.
And for the first time, I was afraid the answer might be worse.
***
At home, I slid the envelope into the kitchen drawer.
Lucas dropped his backpack beside the table.
“Grandma, who was my dad?”
“Who was that lady?”
“Someone who knew your mom.”
His face brightened.
“Really? What did she say?”
“Not much.”
“Did she know my dad?”
“Someone who knew your mom.”
I closed the drawer too quickly.
“I don’t know.”
Lucas watched me.
“You always say that.”
“Because this is something I just don’t know, my love.”
He went quiet.
“You always say that.”
That was Teagan’s move too. I hated seeing it on him.
After he went to bed, I stood at the counter with the envelope in my hands.
Then I opened it.
A photograph slid out.
Teagan stood beside a teenage boy.
I hated seeing it on him.
I knew him: quiet, polite. He’d been at our house twice during Teagan’s pregnancy, but I’d barely spoken to him.
A worn baseball glove was tucked under his arm.
I unfolded the letter.
