I found pictures of birthdays.
School plays.
Christmas mornings.
My mother standing beside me on graduation day.
She looked exhausted in most of them.
She’d worked so hard.
And she’d been afraid.
I thought about the day she’d told me Patricia had moved away.
I wondered how many nights she’d lain awake worrying that someone might come to our door and take me.
Part of me was angry.
She should have told me the truth.
She should have trusted me when I was older.
But another part of me understood how fear can make people hold on too tightly.
I loved her.
That hadn’t changed.
And learning about Rebecca didn’t erase Caroline.
It simply meant my story had begun earlier than I’d known.
⸻
Three days later, I called Thomas Sloan.
Martin had given me his number.
I stared at it for almost an hour before dialing.
A man answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
His voice was rough and slightly breathless.
“Mr. Sloan?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Nathaniel Brooks.”
There was silence.
Then I heard something fall.
A chair, maybe.
Or a phone being set down.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
“Nate?”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
He made a small sound.
Then he said, “I’ve been hoping you’d call.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Neither did he.
Finally, I asked whether he remembered meeting me at the park.
He laughed softly.
“I remember every minute.”
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“Because your mother asked me not to.”
“Did that make you angry?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Later, I realized she was scared. And I didn’t want you growing up thinking the people who loved you were fighting over you.”
