“After I gave birth, I brought my baby to meet the grandpa who raised me — but the moment he saw her face, he burst into tears and said, “This is impossible. You have no idea what you’ve done.” My grandpa was the only father I ever had after my parents died in a car crash. So when I got pregnant at 27 and the man I loved disappeared the same night I told him, Grandpa was the one who held me together. He had never met Caleb. I had kept putting off introducing them, telling …

“Dear Sarah, where did the little girl go? Did she take her bicycle? Please write back. Caleb.”

My throat tightened.

He hadn’t forgotten me.

Not even then.

I opened another.

Then another.

The handwriting slowly changed as the years passed.

One teenage letter contained folded bills.

“I saved this from my allowance. Please use it for her. Please tell me she is okay.”

A later letter had been written in a messier, older hand.

“Grandfather says he’s leaving something for me when I’m old enough. Dad says I’ll never touch any of it without him. Maybe someday I’ll finally be able to help you myself.”

He had known.

On the back of the final letter, my mother had written five words in her familiar slanted handwriting.

“He isn’t like his father.”

I stared at them.

My mother had trusted Caleb before I was old enough to remember him.