“You told me you met someone else,” I said. “You sent me that letter.”
“I know.”
“You said it was over.”
“I know.”
The anger came fast enough to frighten me. “Did you even write it?”
She lowered her gaze. “My mother helped me. Mostly, she wrote it.”
I let out a short laugh with no humor in it. “Your mother.”
Caroline stood, unsteady but resolute. “You need to hear everything. Please.”
I wanted to walk out. I wanted answers, wanted her to feel even a fraction of the damage she had just placed in my hands. But something in her face stopped me. It wasn’t manipulation. It was exhaustion. It was grief that had lived too long in silence.
“My father found out first,” she said. “He was furious. You were leaving town, had no money, no degree, no way to support a family. My parents said if anyone found out, my life would be over before it began. They sent me to stay with my aunt in Indiana until the baby was born.”
I struggled to speak. “A son or daughter?”
