So was I.
For ten years I had buried my son and his wife in my heart. I had hated myself for sometimes resenting the weight of what had been placed on my shoulders. I had mourned them, defended them, missed them, and asked God why.
And all that time… they had been alive.
At least, they had been when Rebecca wrote that letter.
The rest of the children came running when they heard us crying. One by one, I read the letter aloud. Marcus turned white and sat down hard in a chair. Sophie sobbed into June’s shoulder. Noah kept saying, “No. No. No,” like he could force the world to make sense.
It was Marcus, now twenty-five, who noticed the final packet included the name of a retired federal agent in another state.
