Chapter 3
I didn't sleep that night.
I sat on the floor of my bedroom with the envelope beside me, reading every document until the words began to swim.
My father had tried to contact me for years.
There were letters addressed to me, emails to my mother, and even receipts for gifts he had purchased but never delivered.
One receipt was for a silver necklace.
Another was for a bicycle.
The last was for a cake from a bakery I remembered visiting with him when I was little.
He had ordered it for my twelfth birthday.
I had spent that birthday telling my friends my father had forgotten me.
He had ordered me a cake.
I pressed the receipt against my mouth and cried until my throat hurt.
At sunrise, I called my aunt Denise.
She was my father's older sister and the only person on his side of the family I still spoke to occasionally.
She answered on the third ring.
“Nia? Baby, what's wrong?”
“Where is my father?”
Silence.
Then a sharp breath.
“What happened?”
“I found his letters.”
Another silence followed.
When she finally spoke, her voice trembled.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“You knew?”
“I knew he was trying.”
My stomach twisted.
“How could you let me believe he abandoned me?”
“I tried to tell your mother that keeping you apart would hurt you. She threatened to cut off every visit if I interfered.”
“So you chose to stay quiet.”
“I was wrong.”
Her admission made me angrier than an excuse would have.
“Where is he?”
“He lives in Savannah. He's been there for years.”
She gave me his address.
Before we ended the call, she added something that changed the way I understood everything.
“Your father never remarried, Nia. He never had another child. He kept your bedroom exactly as it was when you were little.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“Because he believed you'd come home someday.”
I booked a bus ticket that afternoon.
My mother discovered my plans before I left.
She stood in the hallway while I dragged my suitcase downstairs.
“Please don't do this.”
I kept walking.
“I'm going to see my father.”
“He might not forgive me.”
I stopped.
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for her.
Then I remembered the years I had spent staring at the telephone, wondering why I wasn't important enough for a call.
“That's not my responsibility.”
She followed me to the front door.
“I'm your mother.”
“And he's my father.”
Her face crumpled.
I walked out anyway.
The journey to Savannah felt endless.
Every mile brought me closer to a man I had spent nine years trying to forget.
I rehearsed what I would say.
I would ask why he stopped trying.
I would demand to know whether he had ever considered coming to find me himself.
I would tell him how much I had suffered.
But when the bus finally arrived, all my carefully prepared words disappeared.
My father lived in a modest blue house on a quiet street lined with oak trees.
The porch needed painting.
A bicycle leaned against the fence.
There were flowerpots near the steps, and a wind chime hung beside the front door.
I stood on the sidewalk for nearly ten minutes.
Then I noticed the small wooden sign beside the entrance.
Carter Family Home.
Someone had carved three names into it.
David.
Nia.
Denise.
My knees nearly gave out.
I climbed the steps and knocked.
Footsteps sounded inside.
The door opened.
My father stood before me.
He was older than I remembered. His hair had turned gray at the temples, and deep lines framed his eyes.
But his eyes were the same.
Warm brown.
Gentle.
Terrified.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
Then he whispered my name.
“Nia?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
He gripped the doorframe.
“Is this real?”
I began crying.
“Dad.”
His face crumpled.
He stepped forward, then stopped himself.
“Can I hug you?”
That question destroyed me.
My father had once carried me on his shoulders. He had kissed my scraped knees and taught me to ride a bicycle.
Now he was asking permission to touch his own daughter.
I threw myself into his arms.
He caught me tightly, burying his face in my hair.
“Oh, my baby,” he sobbed. “My baby girl.”
I clung to him.
“I thought you didn't want me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at my face.
“Never.”
“Why didn't you come get me?”
His expression changed.
Pain moved across his face, followed by something harder.
“I tried.”
“Marcus said he made you leave.”
My father closed his eyes.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he stepped aside and invited me in.
The house smelled like coffee and fresh laundry.
Family photographs covered the walls.
I recognized myself in nearly every one.
My first birthday.
My kindergarten graduation.
A beach trip when I was eight.
And beside the staircase hung a photograph I had never seen before.
It showed my father standing outside our old house, holding a small gift bag.
He looked exhausted.
Angry.
Heartbroken.
“When was this taken?” I whispered.
“Three months after the divorce.”
I stared at him.
“Did Marcus really tell you to leave?”
My father nodded.
“He said your mother wanted a clean break. He told me you were frightened of me and didn't want to see me.”
I felt sick.
“Did you believe him?”
“No.”
“Then why did you leave?”
My father looked down at his hands.
“Because he told me something else.”
“What?”
He hesitated.
Then he walked to a desk and opened a drawer.
From inside, he removed a folded document.
“I received this the same week I came to your mother's house.”
He handed it to me.
It was a letter from an attorney.
The language was formal and cold.
It warned my father that any attempt to contact me outside the agreed custody arrangements could lead to legal consequences.
At the bottom was a signature.
Marcus Reed.
My stepfather.
I stared at the name until my vision blurred.
“He wasn't my legal guardian.”
“No,” my father said. “But he told me he was helping your mother handle everything.”
I sank into a chair.
My father knelt beside me.
“I should have fought harder. I should have hired another attorney. I should have found a way to make sure you knew I loved you.”
I looked at him through my tears.
“Why didn't you?”
“Because I made mistakes too. I thought giving your mother time would keep you from being caught in the middle.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I was wrong about that.”
For the first time, my anger softened.
He wasn't pretending he had done everything right.
He was admitting he had failed me, even while trying to protect me.
I leaned forward and rested my forehead against his shoulder.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Then he said something that made me sit up.
“Nia, there is one more thing you need to know about Marcus.”
I wiped my face.
“What?”
My father looked toward the hallway.
“The day he told me to stay away, he also offered me money.”
My stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
I stared at him.
“For what?”
“To sign an agreement promising I would never contact you again.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“And you refused?”
My father gave me a sad smile.
“Of course I refused.”
Then he opened another drawer and removed a sealed document.
“I kept the original agreement.”
My blood ran cold.
Because beneath the signature line, I saw something even more disturbing.
May you like
A second signature.
My mother's.
