She handed it to me with trembling fingers. Inside was a letter written in Charles’s unmistakable handwriting.
“My name is Charles Morrison. If you’re reading this, it means I’ve finally built the courage to reach out. I’m your father.”
My breath caught. Tears blurred the words. Rage, disbelief, grief—everything surged at once.
“I panicked when you were born. I wasn’t ready. My mother helped me disappear. I thought it was right. I was wrong. I’ve watched from afar. I hope we can talk. I understand if you don’t want to.”
At the bottom was a phone number—the same one from the call log.
“How did you find him?” I asked Susie, surprised by the calm in my voice.
“I found him online,” she said softly. “Months ago. I wanted to see if I looked like him. The letter came later.”
“I have his eyes, don’t I?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Then I called him,” she whispered. “We’ve been talking for two months.”
“Do you want to keep talking to him?” I asked, my throat raw.
“I do,” she said, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I need to know why he left.”
