After my mom died, I asked the hospital if they’d help me find you. They said they couldn’t give me your information without your permission. So I asked them to pass along a letter asking if you’d be willing to meet.
I never expected you to say yes.
When you called me last September, I couldn’t believe it. And when we met at that diner in Fairborn, and you showed me the picture of her, the only one you had, I finally knew what she looked like.
She had your hair.
I stopped reading.
When we met at that diner in Fairborn.
Arthur had met him. Arthur had sat across from this man at a diner, maybe a mile from our house. Maybe the Waffle House on Broad Street, where he went every Saturday morning to do his crossword.
And he’d never said a word.
I know you haven’t told your wife, the letter continued. You told me why. I understand. I really do.
But Arthur, I want to say this as gently as I can. I think she deserves to know. Not because of me. Because of Rose. Because her daughter did something extraordinary, and her mother doesn’t know about it.
I’m not going to push. I would never show up at your door. That’s your choice, not mine.
But if you ever decide to tell her, I’d be honored to meet her. I’d like her to meet my Rose. I’d like her to know that her daughter’s name is still being said out loud every day in our house.
Thank you for everything. For forty years of everything.
Daniel
And beneath that last envelope, tucked against the back of the stack, was one final sheet of notebook paper. Arthur’s handwriting again. Shakier this time. The ink was darker. Newer.
It was dated January of this year. Two months before he died.
Franny,
I met him. I should have told you. I’ve been trying to find the words for four months.
I’ve decided I’m going to tell you on April 14th. Rose’s birthday. I’ll take you to the Waffle House and order you the pecan waffle you like, and I’ll tell you everything.
But I’m scared. I’m scared you’ll never forgive me. I’m scared you’ll look at me the way you looked at me in that hospital bed, like you’re about to break.
So I’m writing it down here too. Just in case I can’t get the words out.
If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it to April.
I’m sorry, Franny. I’m sorry I broke my promise. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up. I’m sorry I made that choice without you.
But I’m not sorry I made it.
She was ours for three days. And now she’s part of a man who takes care of babies with broken hearts. And she’s part of a little girl named Rose who loves unicorns and pancakes.
I hope you can forgive me. Even if you can’t, please call him. His number is on the last envelope. He’s been waiting a long time.
That’s why I never let you get rid of this couch. I needed her close. I needed to sit on top of her every day, so I’d remember I wasn’t the only one carrying her.
I love you. I’ve loved you since the day you corrected my grammar at the Dayton public library.
Sit close to me,
Arthur
Part Eleven: Eli
It was almost four o’clock when I finally set the last letter down.
