For ten years, I raised my grandson believing his father had simply walked away.
My daughter, Teagan, had been young when she became pregnant. She never wanted to talk much about the baby’s father, and I convinced myself that he had chosen not to be part of their lives.
Then one afternoon, while visiting Teagan’s grave with my grandson Lucas, a woman approached me with a sealed envelope.
“My name is Trudy,” she said quietly. “I knew your daughter.”
Browse Reference
I looked at the envelope.
My name was written across the front.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
It was Teagan’s.
“She gave this to me the day Lucas was born,” Trudy explained. “She asked me to give it to you if something happened and the baby’s father didn’t come.”
I couldn’t speak.
Lucas was nearby, preparing a birthday card for his mother.
“Why are you giving it to me now?” I finally asked.
