Inside was a single photograph.
At first, I did not understand what I was seeing.
It was old. Slightly faded. Taken in a hospital room.
My father sat beside a bed, younger than I remembered, his face pale with exhaustion. My mother lay against the pillows, holding a newborn wrapped in a white blanket.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written three words.
Not your father.
The room tilted.
Daniel grabbed my arm. “Claire?”
I could not breathe.
Below the photograph was a folded note.
This time, the handwriting was not Evan’s.
It was my father’s.
My fingers shook as I opened it.
My dearest Claire,
If you are reading this, then someone has forced open a door I hoped would remain closed forever.
I have made many mistakes in my life, but loving you was never one of them.
Blood is a small thing compared to choice.
Remember that before you trust anyone with what comes next.
I read the last sentence three times.
Blood is a small thing compared to choice.
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