The name on it:
Ava.
I opened the letters.
They weren’t mine.
They were from another woman.
Caroline.
She wrote about a child.
About waiting.
About Daniel not choosing.
And then I understood.
My husband…
had another family.
The truth
A daughter.
Eight years old.
The exact time we had been separated for a few months.
The exact time I thought we were just… struggling.
He hadn’t told me.
Not once.
But he had supported them.
Sent money.
Stayed in contact.
Lived a second life I knew nothing about.
The last letter was from him.
“I couldn’t fix this.
Please… meet her. Help her if you can.”
I remember sitting on the attic floor, surrounded by pieces of a life I didn’t recognize…
and thinking:
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