PART 7
I looked up at my daughters, both of them crying openly now, watching my face for a reaction neither of them seemed entirely prepared for.
“There’s more,” Nora said quietly. “At the bottom.”
I kept reading.
If my daughters ever want to find me, once they’re old enough to make that choice entirely for themselves, without anyone else’s fear or judgment shaping the decision for them, I am leaving a number below that I intend to keep active for as long as I possibly can. Please don’t tell them about this letter until their eighteenth birthday. I need them to be old enough to decide, completely on their own terms, whether finding me is something they actually want, rather than something well-meaning adults decided for them too early.
I am so sorry. I hope, more than I know how to properly say in a letter this short, that you give them the life I already believe, from everything I’ve read about you, you’re capable of giving them.
Marisol Vance.
Beneath her name was a phone number, and beneath that, a mailing address for a P.O. box in a town I didn’t recognize at all.