The Letter My Mother Wrote in Secret
Chapter 08 - The Letter My Mother Wrote in Secret
Rosa mailed the letter to Rebecca's office after verifying the arrangements.
It arrived in a plain envelope.
The paper inside was folded twice.
There was no date.
Only a name written across the top.
To my Julian, wherever you are.
I stared at the handwriting.
Then I began reading.
My sweet boy,
I don't know how old you will be when you read this.
Maybe you'll still be little. Maybe you'll be a grown man with a family of your own.
I hope someone has been kind to you.
I hope you laugh.
I hope you've had birthday cakes and warm blankets and somebody to sit beside you when you are frightened.
If anyone ever tells you I stopped looking for you, please don't believe them.
You were the happiest part of my life.
I stopped.
My hands were shaking.
Mia moved closer.
I continued.
I remember the night you were born. Your father held you against his chest and cried because he couldn't believe something so small could make him love so much.
When he died, I promised him I would protect you.
I tried, Julian.
God knows I tried.
I don't know whether I'll ever have the chance to explain what happened.
But if you remember one thing about me, remember this: I let you go that night because I wanted you to live.
Not because I wanted you to leave.
I love you beyond every mile between us.
Mom.
I lowered the letter.
For a long time, I couldn't speak.
Then I folded forward and cried.
Mia held me.
Eleanor turned away, wiping her face.
That evening, I took the letter to Dad's grave.
Thomas Reed was buried in a small cemetery outside Chicago.
The headstone was simple.
THOMAS REED — BELOVED FATHER.
I sat in the grass.
"Hey, Dad."
My voice shook.
"I found out."
The wind moved through the trees.
"I know my name was Julian."
I looked at the headstone.
"And I know you were scared."
I swallowed.
"I wish you'd told me while you were alive."
For a moment, anger returned.
Sixteen years.
An entire childhood.
Memories I couldn't explain.
Questions Dad had refused to answer.
Then I remembered the man who taught me how to ride a bicycle.
Who worked weekends repairing engines.
Who sat beside my bed when I had nightmares.
Who never missed Mia's school concerts.
"You should've trusted me with the truth," I whispered.
I wiped my eyes.
"But I know you loved me."
I placed a small flower beside the headstone.
"And I love you too."
When I returned home, Mia was making dinner.
She looked up.
"How was it?"
"Hard."
She nodded.
Then she pointed toward the refrigerator.
"I found something."
It was an old photograph of Dad holding both of us at the beach.
I was about ten.
Mia was seven.
We were laughing.
Our clothes were soaked.
Dad had sand on his face.
I smiled through my tears.
"I remember that day."
"Me too."
Mia touched my shoulder.
"You know, having another family doesn't erase this one."
I looked at her.
She smiled.
"You can be Julian Whitmore and Noah Reed."
I pulled her into a hug.
"You're still stuck with me."
"Unfortunately."
I laughed.
For the first time since the fountain, the laughter didn't feel borrowed.
Later that night, Rebecca called.
Her investigator had found another lead.
A woman matching Catherine's identifying details had worked under a different surname at a small community library in northern Michigan.
The employment had ended the previous year.
There was no confirmed current address.
But the personnel file listed an emergency contact.
An older woman named Grace Holloway.
Rebecca had contacted her.
And Grace had said something extraordinary.
"She knows Catherine," Rebecca told me.
I stood.
"Where is she?"
"She won't give us an address until she speaks to you."
"Why?"
Rebecca paused.
"Because Catherine has spent years hiding from the Whitmore family."
My heart pounded.
May you like
"And Grace doesn't know whether you're really her son."
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