She looked at Mom.
“Margaret?”
Mom stood slowly.
Catherine smiled.
“You probably don’t remember me.”
Mom walked toward her.
“Oh, I remember you.”
For one frightening second, I thought Mom might be angry.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around Catherine.
Both women started crying.
Inside the wooden box were old letters, photographs, and one note written by Mom’s father.
Mom unfolded it with shaking hands.
The message was short.
He had written it the week before my parents’ wedding.
He said he knew Margaret had chosen the right man.
He also wrote that sometimes loving your child meant quietly removing the obstacle standing between them and the life they deserved.
Mom pressed the letter against her chest.
Then she turned toward Dad.
“You carried this alone for fifty-nine years?”
Dad shook his head.
“No. I carried the fear that if you knew everything, you might look at our beginning differently.”
