She continued.
“My father never blamed you. He told me that families sometimes have reasons children don't understand.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Apparently.”
Mara stepped closer.
“Caleb.”
I looked at her.
“Someone came looking for you after we left.”
My heart pounded.
“Who?”
“My father.”
I stared.
She nodded.
“He drove back to Millbrook in 2005. He wanted to speak to your grandmother and find out whether you wanted to see me.”
I swallowed.
“What happened?”
“She told him you were staying in Chicago and that he shouldn't contact you directly.”
My eyes filled.
Mara continued.
“He believed her.”
I looked toward the letter.
Then toward the open garage door.
For twenty-four years, I had blamed distance.
Bad timing.
A forgotten promise.
Now I was discovering that adults had made decisions about our relationship without telling either of us.
I felt suddenly furious.
Not at Mara.
Not even at her father.
At the years we spent believing we had been abandoned.
I looked toward her.
“Why didn't you come find me when you became an adult?”
Mara's face crumpled.
She looked down.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Because I thought you agreed with them.”
I stared.
She continued.
“I thought maybe you didn't want to know me anymore.”
Her voice broke.
“And after a while, I was afraid that finding you would prove it.”
The words struck me.
For years, I had felt exactly the same thing.
I stepped closer.
“Mara.”
She looked up.
I could see the eleven-year-old girl beneath the woman standing before me.
The same expressive eyes.
The same frightened hope.
The same stubborn refusal to stop caring.
I wanted to hug her.
But something held me back.
Anger.
Confusion.
The memory of Hannah.
The responsibility of being Lily's father.
And the sudden realization that the past was not as simple as either of us believed.
I looked toward the photograph.
Then asked quietly, “Why now?”
Mara wiped her cheeks.
“My father died four years ago.”