Then she walked away.
***
Teagan had been eighteen when she told me she was pregnant.
I asked about the father more times than I could count.
“My number’s on the back.”
“Does he know?”
“Mom, please.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can handle this myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
“Please stop making this harder.”
“Mom, please.”
We went in circles until talking only made things worse.
Then, the day Lucas was born, a doctor came into the waiting room and sat beside me.
“I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”
I stared at him.
“The baby?”
“I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”
“He’s alive. He’s going to need you.”
My daughter never came home.
My grandson did.
For ten years, it was just the two of us.
Lucas grew into a sweet, curious boy who loved baseball, Sunday pancakes, and one question I couldn’t answer.
“He’s alive. He’s going to need you.”
“Grandma, who was my dad?”
“I don’t know.”
Now I had Teagan’s letter in my coat pocket.
And for the first time, I was afraid the answer might be worse.
***
At home, I slid the envelope into the kitchen drawer.
Lucas dropped his backpack beside the table.
