He did not answer.
Leo watched us all, his water untouched.
“Maybe the mail carrier made a mistake,” my father said, but even he did not sound convinced.
“Eight times?” I asked.
He sank back into the chair.
For a while, no one spoke.
Then my mother reached for the first letter and unfolded it. Her eyes moved across the page. I remembered writing it at a kitchen table in a borrowed apartment, Leo kicking beneath my ribs while I tried not to cry onto the paper.
Mom, Dad, I’m safe. I know you’re angry. I know you think I made a terrible mistake. But this baby is Noah’s. I didn’t tell you because he wanted to speak with you first. Please call me. Please don’t shut the door forever.
My mother pressed the page against her chest.
“Oh, Emma.”
I could not look at her.
