Chapter 8: The Letters

I pushed back from the table so hard my chair scraped against the floor.

“No.”

Leo stood up carefully. “Mom…”

“No,” I said, gripping the edge of the counter. “No, there’s no way.”

“There’s more,” he said gently.

I looked at him.

He swallowed.

“She says some letters were thrown out. But some were hidden. Some were kept in an attic box.”

A box.

Proof.

Real proof that the life I had mourned might not have been the truth at all.

I stared at the phone.

“I spent eighteen years thinking he ran.”

Just then, my mother walked through the back door carrying dinner rolls.

“I brought the good ones,” she called.

Then she saw my face.

“Heather? What happened?”

I turned toward her, still holding Leo’s phone.

“He wrote.”

She frowned.

“Who?”

“Andrew.” Continue Reading ⬇️