She said the baby was mine.*
*I didn’t handle it well.
I was scared.
I told myself she had moved on, that she had people around her, that maybe I was wrong about the timing.
I told myself a lot of things that weren’t true.
What I actually did was nothing.
I stayed away.
I let myself believe it was easier for everyone.*
*His name is Daniel.
He is five years old.
I have never met him.*
*I found out six weeks ago that Diane is sick.
Not the way I am sick — she may recover.
But she has no family nearby, and Daniel has no one else.
I have been trying to figure out how to tell you.
I kept starting and stopping.
I was ashamed.
I am ashamed.*
*I am not asking you to raise him.
I am not asking you to forgive me right away.
I am asking you to make sure he is not alone.
Whatever that looks like.
Whatever you can manage.
I know this is not fair.*
*You are the most decent person I have ever known.
That is not a small thing to say.
It is the reason I am asking.*
*I’m sorry.
I am so sorry.*
*— Mark*
—
I folded the letter along its original creases.
My hands were steady by then, which surprised me.
The doctor was watching me carefully.
“Did you know?” I asked.
“He told me there was a child,” he said.
“He didn’t tell me the details.”
“Did he tell you what he was asking me to do?”
“No.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The little boy was sitting on a front step, squinting into the sun.
He was wearing a striped shirt with a small stain near the collar.
He looked like a child who had just been called in from playing and hadn’t quite stopped moving yet.
He looked exactly like Mark.
“I need to sit down,” I said.
The doctor led me to a small waiting area off the main corridor.
Two chairs, a low table, a window that looked onto a concrete wall.
He brought me a cup of water I didn’t drink.
“Is there someone I can call for you?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
He nodded and left me alone.
I sat with the letter in my lap and the photograph face-up on the table.
I looked at Daniel’s squinting face.
