She remembered adults asking questions while she sat in a chair with her feet unable to touch the floor. She remembered feeling as though every answer she gave could somehow make things worse.
She remembered her father standing between her and the people who wanted answers.
But she had never known anyone had threatened him.
She continued reading.
I kept a written note containing one of those threats and gave a copy to the investigator handling the case. I wanted to make sure that if anyone tried to change the story, there would be evidence of what had really happened.
But that is not the secret I have struggled most to tell you.
Emma’s hands began to shake.
Several months after Sophie was born, Lucas’s mother returned to our house. She came alone.
She was crying. She said she had not agreed with her husband’s decisions, but she had been too afraid to stand against him. She begged me to let her see her granddaughter.
I told her that Sophie was your daughter, and that no decision about her future could be made without you.
She left a photograph, her address, and a message asking me to contact her when you were ready.
I kept those things.
At first, I wanted to protect you while you recovered. Later, I was afraid that telling you would bring back the pain you had worked so hard to overcome.
I told myself I was protecting you. Perhaps, in some ways, I was also protecting myself from having to watch you suffer again.
I should have trusted you with the truth.
Forgive me for waiting so long.
You have the right to know where you came from. You also have the right to decide who deserves a place in your life.
Whatever you choose, remember that you were never responsible for the cruelty of the adults around you.
I love you, my daughter.
Dad.
Emma lowered the letter.
For several minutes, she could not speak.
She had spent years remembering her father as the man who saved her from a world that seemed ready to condemn her.
Now she understood that he had been fighting battles she had never even known existed.
But another feeling crept into her heart.
He had hidden something from her.
Even if he had done it out of love, he had made a decision about her past without allowing her to decide what she wanted to know.
“Did he tell you anything else?” she finally asked.
Elisabeth nodded.
“He said Lucas’s mother regretted what had happened. But he also made it clear that regret was not the same as taking responsibility.”
“Did she ever try to contact us again?”
“Not directly. Your father kept her information safe, but he never wanted to force a meeting. He believed the decision had to be yours.”
Emma looked at the photographs.
One showed a teenage boy standing beside a woman in her forties. The boy’s expression was distant, almost defiant. The woman, however, looked straight at the camera with a sadness Emma could not explain.
On the back was a name.
Helena.
Lucas’s mother.
Emma slipped the photograph into her bag.
“Do you know where she lives now?”
“I don’t know her current address,” Elisabeth replied. “But I may be able to help you find out.”
Emma stood to leave, then paused beside the door.
“Do you think my father was right to hide this from me?”