Chapter 2 - The Letters That Never Arrived
Kael called at nine the following morning.
I was sitting in my kitchen with a bowl of oatmeal, watching the first snow of the year catch on the fire escape. The telephone number wasn't familiar, but the silence after I answered was.
"It's Kael," he said.
I gripped the table.
"Hello, sweetheart."
He let out a small breath. "Please don't call me that yet."
"All right."
He asked whether I had documents proving what I'd said at the station. I told him about the storage box beneath my bed, the county letters, and a small photograph of him on the steps of our old apartment.
"I want to see copies," he said. "Not the originals."
"That's sensible."
He sounded surprised.
We agreed to meet in a public library conference room on Saturday, where we could talk without his driver or my neighbors listening. I called my friend Ruth, a retired social worker who volunteered at the station, and asked her to come along as a witness to the exchange. Kael said he'd bring his own attorney, which hurt until I reminded myself he knew nothing about me except a childhood nickname and an encounter that had begun badly.
I took the box out that night.
Inside were letters I'd sent after the county placed him with a foster family when he was six. At the time I was twenty-nine, sick with a kidney infection that had kept me in the hospital for weeks, and trying to keep our apartment with wages from a laundry job.
A caseworker arranged temporary care after my sister moved out of state and no relative could take him. I agreed because I believed he needed a warm bed and regular meals while I recovered.
I had expected him home before the school year ended.
Then the landlord changed the locks while I was in the hospital. Notices sent to my old address came back undelivered. I slept in a church shelter and worked wherever I could. By the time I learned a permanency hearing had been scheduled, it had already taken place.
I had a lawyer for part of the case, but she retired. I missed appointments I didn't know existed. The court eventually terminated my parental rights. The decision became final. I had spent years trying to understand the procedural history, and had never found a simple answer that made the loss fair.
I did not tell myself I had done everything perfectly. There were days I couldn't get out of bed. A few times I drank too much because I was frightened and alone. I had not been capable of giving Kael a safe home then. I did not believe that meant I had stopped loving him.
The letters recorded both sides of that truth.
Dear Kael, I am getting stronger. I hope the new family takes you to the park.
Dear Kael, I don't know if you're receiving these. I still remember the way you draw circles around birds in your books.
Dear Kael, I am working nights now. There is a little room with a window. I wanted to show it to you.
Many envelopes came back stamped RETURN TO SENDER. Others disappeared into offices that never answered.
I had eventually learned that Kael was adopted by a couple named Carr. I knew his first name might have changed and didn't want to intrude on a child who'd been told I didn't exist. I placed the letters in the box and kept living.
Saturday morning Kael arrived at the library wearing an ordinary gray sweater. His attorney, Mrs. Weller, carried a notebook. Ruth sat beside me and asked if everyone was comfortable recording a factual summary rather than the conversation itself. We agreed.
I opened the box. Kael touched a small drawing he'd made of a red kite flying over a house.
"I remember this," he said.
"You made it after a storm. You wanted to know if the wind could carry a house."
His fingers stayed on the paper.
"My dad told me you didn't come back because you didn't want to."
"I wanted to," I said. "I tried."
Mrs. Weller asked to review the dates and copies before drawing conclusions about the records. I said she should.
Kael read two letters without speaking. Then he looked at me.
"My adoptive mother is alive," he said. "If I ask her, she may tell a different story."
"She might."
"Will you still talk to me if I believe her?"
"Yes," I said. "You're allowed to love the people who raised you. You don't have to deny them to hear what happened to me."
He closed the box gently.
Before we left, he asked whether I'd really spent Wednesday evenings giving people bus schedules for free.
I told him I had.
"Why?"
"Because being lost feels worse when everybody assumes you know where you're going."
May you like
He looked toward the window where a bus rolled past.
"We need to talk about the station," he said.
