Please take care of Hope.
— Andy”
My hands began to shake uncontrollably.
“No,” I whispered. “No, Jen. No.”
For five years, I had forced myself to accept that my daughter might never come back.
And now, Hope blinked up at me.
I pressed the note to my lips, then forced myself to act.
I called the pediatric clinic and told them I was bringing in a baby who had been left in my care.
Then I called Paul.
He answered with irritation. “What now, Jodi?”
“Get over here.”
“Jodi, I have work. I have a life.”
“And I have your granddaughter on my kitchen table.”
A pause.
“What?”
“Come now, Paul.”
He arrived twenty minutes later. Amber stayed in the car.
Paul stepped into the kitchen, already complaining—then he saw the jacket.
All the color drained from his face.
He froze.
“Where did you get that?”
I picked up Hope before answering. “That was my question.”
His eyes flicked to the note in my hand—then away.
“You knew more than you let on, Paul.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Did you know she was alive? That she left to live her life? That she left to be with someone she loved?”
“Jodi—”
“Did you know, Paul?”
