And whatever Diane tells you, remember this:
Thomas is not dead.
I nearly dropped the letter.
“What?”
My mother turned away.
I stared at her.
“You told me my biological father died before I was born.”
“I thought he had.”
“Richard says he’s alive.”
Mom shook her head.
“No one has seen Thomas since 1989.”
Grandma whispered, “That doesn’t mean he’s dead.”
I looked at the final sentence.
It had been underlined twice.
If Thomas ever appears, do not trust him until he tells you what happened the night you were born.
My mouth went dry.
“The night I was born?”
Mom sank back into the chair.
Grandma suddenly looked exhausted.
The journey, the shock, the weight of seventy-nine years seemed to settle on her shoulders all at once.
I crouched beside her.
“Grandma, where is the second suitcase?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who does?”
She hesitated.
Then said:
“Thomas.”
From the playpen, Sophie began laughing.
We all turned.
She was standing against the mesh wall, holding something in her tiny hand.
Something shiny.
Michael walked toward her.
“What did you find, sweetheart?”
Sophie held it out.
A small brass key.
The same kind of key Grandma had used to open the red suitcase.
My pulse stopped.
“That wasn’t there before,” Michael said.
He picked it up.
Attached to the key was a folded strip of paper.
Fresh paper.
Not old.
Someone had placed it inside Sophie’s playpen during the birthday party.
Michael unfolded it.
Three words were written in black ink.
CHECK THE GARAGE.
Nobody moved.
Then Robert stood.
“No.”
Michael headed toward the hallway.
I followed.
Grandma called after us.
“Anna, don’t!”
But I was already moving.
We reached the mudroom.
Michael grabbed the baseball bat he kept beside the coat rack.
He opened the door into the garage.
The lights were off.
He switched them on.
Our car sat where we had left it.
Boxes lined one wall.
Sophie’s stroller leaned near the freezer.
For one second, nothing appeared wrong.
Then I saw the object beside the workbench.
A suitcase.
Red leather.
Brass corners.
Nearly identical to Grandma’s.
My knees almost gave way.
“No.”
Michael approached slowly.
The suitcase had no dust on it.
Someone had brought it there recently.
Possibly while our house had been filled with birthday guests.
The key from Sophie’s playpen fit the lock.
Michael looked at me.
“Do we open it?”
Before I could answer, Grandma’s wheelchair appeared in the doorway.
My mother pushed her.
The moment Grandma saw the second suitcase, all the blood vanished from her face.
“That can’t be.”
Robert came behind them.
He stared at it.
Then whispered:
“Oh, God.”
Michael inserted the key.
The lock opened.
Inside were dozens of ledgers wrapped in plastic.
Bundles of photographs.
Old hospital forms.
Birth certificates.
Cash receipts.
At the top lay a modern photograph.
A man standing outside our house.
Taken recently.
He appeared to be in his late sixties.
Gray hair.
Tall.
Thin.
His eyes looked strangely familiar.
I turned the photograph over.
One sentence was written on the back.
ANNA, I’M SORRY I MISSED YOUR BIRTHDAY.
My hand shook.
Mom leaned closer.
The photograph slipped from her fingers.
“Thomas.”
I stared at her.
“That’s him?”
She nodded.
My biological father.
Alive.
Standing outside my house.
But there was something else beneath the photograph.
A white envelope.
It was addressed to Sophie.
Not me.
Not Grandma.
My one-year-old daughter.
PArt 2: My 101-year-old grandmother hadn’t gotten out of bed in two years — she arrived at my daughter’s first birthday with a locked red suitcase t1
