I need to find out what’s in these letters, and be prepared for what awaits me back home.
I set them on the counter and my hands fumble around until the rubber bands are gone. I grab the blue envelope on top of the mound, carefully rip the top and pull out a letter. Something slides from within and flutters to the floor. I watch its descent, frowning at what looks like a birthday card. Crouching down, I pick it up and flick it open and I’m met with a picture of two identical girls, grinning at the camera. They can’t be older than six years.
A touch on my arm pulls me away from the image. I look up to find Simon staring curiously at the card in my hand, and then meets my gaze.
“Who are they?” he asks.
I shake my head, return my focus to the picture and flip it around to scan for clues.
The words ‘Cora and Joce Holloway. Six years old’ are scribbled on the back in Nor’s handwriting.
I feel as if someone thrust a sharp object in my chest.
Nor and Josh have children? And why the hell did she see fit to shove that fact in my face? As if marrying my brother wasn’t enough.
That thought sends pain spreading through my body. Throwing the card and picture on the counter, I grip the counter, my sight blurring with rage.
Knowing that Nor—the girl I’d loved and lost—and my brother have children is like having my heart broken all over again. They moved on with their lives, while I spent the last nine years of mine living in stasis.
Simon touches my arm again. I spin around to glare at him.
“Satisfied?” I spit out, jabbing a finger at the photo. “Fuck, Simon. This is the reason I never wanted to open those letters.”
He’s holding one of the letters in his hands, his eyes wide. He tries to say something but stops and drags a hand through his hair.
“Oh, man. The girls. . .Cora and Joce are your daughters. Nor and you. Not Josh,” he says.
The words punch me in the gut, and I stumble back on impact.
No.
He couldn’t have said what I think he did. My eyes are playing tricks on me. “What did you just say?”
He slides the card I’d tossed on the counter seconds ago toward me. With my heart racing in my chest, I stare down, confusion then disbelief sweeping through me as my eyes catch the words on the card.
Hi Cole,
Cora and Joce celebrated their sixth birthday on Saturday. Cora reminds me so much of you. I want them to know their real father. I want them to call you ‘Daddy’ but how can they do that if you won’t even reply back to my letters? I beg you to think about this, please.
Love, Nor.
How is that even possible?
I shake my head, forcing my mind to calculate the years we’ve been apart. The last time Nor and I were together.
Exactly nine years.
Jesus.
I’ve been a father all this time. I missed most of their childhood.
A lump forms in my throat and my muscles quiver as anguish and anger course through me.
Do they know about me?
I snatch the blue envelope it came in and scan for the mailing date. The black stamp indicates it was mailed three years ago. Suddenly I can’t seem to catch my breath fast enough as I scatter the letters on the counter with shaking fingers, searching for the letter with the oldest date on it. Simon seems to read my mind and he rounds the counter to joins me in the search. It feels as if we’ve been searching forever when he holds a pink envelope out toward me. I reach for it and zero in on the stamp. This was sent nine years ago. I rip the top open and a color photo falls out on the counter. My gaze scanning the words on the letter while taking in every single word.
Dear Cole,
I hope to God you will read this letter because I have so much I want to tell you. I can’t even start to tell you how sorry I am about what happened when you got released and came home six months ago. I’ve gone over so many ways of how I could have done things better, but every single one of them ends up with either you fatally wounded, something I know I wouldn’t survive, or back in prison.
The reason I am writing to you is to let you know that, oh God. I should be telling you this face to face. I’m pregnant. This is what I was trying to tell you when you walked into St. Christopher’s. I wish I tried harder, fought you harder through your anger. I wish I had been strong enough to disobey my dad and not marry your brother. My father had already hurt you so many times. I knew he had the ability to do worse. He warned me that if I disobeyed him you’d get hurt and I took him very seriously. I was going to save you, even if it meant making a decision that would not only alter the course of our lives, but, break my heart knowing I was breaking yours.