He closed his eyes.
“But that choice belongs to her,” I said. “Not to you. Not anymore.”
We spent the next few days gathering old paperwork like court files and returned envelopes. We eventually got hold of Claire’s last known addresses.
I pushed because Mark kept stopping.
Every time we got close, he found a reason to pause.
“What if she has a good life?” he asked one night.
“Then she still deserves to know the truth.”
“What if Claire told her I was dangerous?”
“Then show her the documents.”
“What if she doesn’t answer?”
I looked at him. “Then at least you finally tried as the man you are now.”
It took three weeks to find Emily.
She lived two towns away.
For years, Mark had been writing letters to a daughter who was less than an hour from our house. She was 22, a nursing student, smiling outside a hospital in blue scrubs.
Mark stared at her photo like he was afraid to blink.
“Write to her,” I said.
“I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you do. Start with the truth.”
It took him all afternoon to write one page.
He did not blame Claire. He did not ask for forgiveness. He told Emily he had loved her every day, that he had tried to find her, and that he would answer any question she had.
Ten days after he mailed it, she replied.
The message was short.
“I got your letter. I don’t know what to believe. But I remember the red boots. Do you still have them?”
