Then:
“Did he read them?”
“I don’t think so.”
That answer broke something.
For seven years, I had trained myself to survive rejection.
The possibility that rejection had never actually happened was worse at first.
Anger has structure.
Grief has structure.
Uncertainty tears both apart.
I asked:
“Why are you calling now?”
She cried.
“Because wedding is Saturday.”
“That doesn’t answer.”
“Because I kept telling myself family business was not mine.”
“And?”
“And then I saw envelope for bride.”
“What envelope?”
“I don’t know.”
“Private laboratory.”
My heart stopped.
“What laboratory?”
She told me.
The same one.
The paternity lab.
I stood so fast chair fell backward.
“Listen to me.”
“Yes.”
“Do not take anything.”
“I already—”
“Do not destroy, hide, or move anything.”
“I understand.”
“Take photographs of cabinet exactly as it is.”
“I did.”
“Send them.”
She did.
There were forty-six envelopes.
Some mine.
Some I recognized immediately.
Birthday cards.
Photographs.
And envelopes addressed in handwriting I had not seen since marriage.
His.
My former husband’s.
To me.
To our son.
I sat on the kitchen floor.
My son found me.
“Mom?”
I locked phone.
Too late.
He saw photograph.
He knew my handwriting.
“Are those mine?”
I said:
“Some.”
“Where?”
I should have lied.
I did not.
“Your grandmother’s house.”
He frowned.
“Dad’s mom?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He sat beside me.
Children know when adults are breaking.
He put his hand on my knee.
“Are you sad?”
“Yes.”
“Because Dad getting married?”
Not the question I expected.
I looked at him.
“Who told you?”
He shrugged.
“School.”
Of course.
Small city social networks.
Someone’s parent.
Someone saw article.
My former husband’s wedding had become a society event.
He continued:
“Is that why?”
“No.”
“Then?”
I showed him one photograph of the box.
Not the laboratory envelope.
Not yet.
“These are letters I wrote to your dad.”
“He kept them?”
“No.”