“She told me that if something went wrong and the boy didn’t come, I should give the letter to you.”

I pointed to the photograph.

“Is that him?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Then what do you know?”

Trudy swallowed.

“He came.”

I froze.

“What?”

“After Teagan died, I saw a young man near the maternity floor asking for her.”

“You spoke to him?”

“No. At first, I didn’t realize who he was. Then I looked at him carefully and remembered Teagan’s description.”

My pulse quickened.

“What happened?”

“He saw you.”

“Doing what?”

“Leaving with Lucas.”

“And?”

“He left.”

I stared at her.

“You watched him walk away?”

“Yes.”

“And then you kept my daughter’s letter?”

Tears filled Trudy’s eyes.

“I told myself you already had enough grief.”

“You made that decision for me.”

“Yes.”

“You made it for Lucas too.”

“Yes.”

My anger became cold.

“So why now?”

Trudy looked down.

“I retired a few months ago. Once I stopped telling myself I was still protecting a patient, I had to admit I was really protecting myself.”

I stood.

“Ten years is a long time to hide behind one bad decision.”

Then I walked out.

The following afternoon, I opened a storage box filled with Teagan’s things.

School programs.

Photos.

A cheap silver bracelet she wore almost every day.

Then I found another photograph of the same boy.

Same face.

Same baseball glove.

Beneath it was a torn notebook page.

Buy diapers.

Finish thank-you cards.

Ask Mom about night classes.

Tell Mom.

I stared at the final words.

Tell Mom.

She had planned to tell me.

She thought there would be time.

“Grandma?”

Lucas stood in the doorway.

He saw the open box and sat beside me.

“Is that Mom’s stuff?”

“Yes.”

I gave him an old school photo.

He smiled.

“I look like her.”

“You have her eyebrows.”

“And her nose?”

“And her nose.”

Then he noticed the boy’s picture.

“Who’s that?”

“Nobody.”

The answer came too quickly.

Lucas frowned.

“Then why did Mom keep his picture?”

I said nothing.

He looked at me.

“That lady told you something, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“About my dad?”

“I’m trying to understand everything first. Once I do, I’ll tell you.”

Lucas stared at me.

“You always tell me not to hide things because I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“So are you hiding something?”

“Yes.”

His honesty deserved mine.

“I need a little time. But I won’t leave you wondering forever.”

He nodded.

Not happily.

But he nodded.

And now I had no excuse not to find the truth.

An old school program gave me the boy’s first name.

After several wrong profiles, I finally found him online.

I sent one message.

My name is Elizabeth. I’m Teagan’s mother. I need to speak with you.

Two hours later, he replied with one word.

Lucas?

He knew the name.

We met the following morning.

He was already sitting at a café table, slowly turning his coffee cup in small circles.

Exactly the way he had done at my kitchen table ten years earlier.

“You knew Lucas’s name.”

“Teagan told me.”

“Then you knew about him.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you come?”

He looked at me.

“I did.”

I froze.

“I came to the hospital.”

Trudy’s words rushed through my mind.

“You were there?”

He nodded.

“My parents wanted me to stay away. They believed a baby would ruin my future.”

“And what did you believe?”

“I was scared. I loved Teagan, but I let everyone else tell me what my life should look like.”

“That explains being eighteen,” I said.

“It doesn’t explain ten years.”

He looked down.

“Teagan told me not to come back until I was willing to choose for myself.”

“And?”

“I finally did.”

“After she died.”

“I didn’t know she was gone when I left home that day.”

“But you found out at the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“And you saw me carrying Lucas.”

He wiped his face.

“I panicked.”

“What about the next day?”

Silence.

“The next week?”

Nothing.

“The next year?”

His eyes dropped.

“You weren’t eighteen for ten years,” I said.

“I know.”

“I kept telling myself I had waited too long. Every year made that excuse easier.”

I believed him.

That didn’t excuse him.

“Does Lucas know about me?” he asked.

“He knows his father exists.”

“Can I see him?”

“No.”

His head lifted.

“I’m his father.”

“You are the man who fathered him. What happens next depends on what you choose to do now.”

He swallowed.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Write him a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Tell him who you are. Tell him why you weren’t there. And tell him why you’re here now.”

He nodded.

“And don’t blame Teagan.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t get credit for finally showing up ten years late,” I said. “But you do get a chance to decide what kind of man you’re going to be from this point forward.”

Two days later, an envelope appeared on my porch.

Lucas’s name was written across the front.

I hated opening something addressed to him.

But Lucas was ten, and I was still responsible for protecting him.

One sentence stayed with me.

I was scared when I was eighteen, but being scared doesn’t explain ten years.

He asked for no forgiveness.

He blamed no one.

Before I gave the letter to Lucas, I called Trudy again.