If he wants to know you someday, tell him about me honestly.
Not as a saint.
Not as a victim.
Tell him I was angry.
Tell him I was scared.
Tell him I wish I had found him sooner.
And tell our daughter that her father loved her before he ever saw her
face.
PART 24
Three days later, I met Noah.
Not because Rebecca arranged it.
Daniel did.
Noah was seventeen.
Tall.
Thin.
Mark’s eyes.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The second was the way he apologized for existing.
“I’m sorry.”
I almost broke.
“For what?”
“My mom said this ruined your family.”
I looked at him.
“Noah, your existence did not ruin anything.”
PART 25
He stared at the floor.
“Did my dad hate me?”
“No.”
“He never came.”
“He didn’t know.”
Noah looked up.
“What?”
So I told him.
Carefully.
Without turning his mother into a monster.
