All I could do was stand there and stare at the pile of letters my sister was holding out to me. Brian had written these, had wanted me, had loved me. And Letty stole this from me. More then that she stole my family and hid it away in the back of her closet to be forgotten. I was a father *I* had a daughter. I reached out with shaking hands for the letters. I’m afraid to read them. The letters will tell me about his pregnancy, of his love at least at first. I don’t want to see the words change; see the love fade from the pages. Letty’s standing in the doorway now, a look of anger on her face. Vince and Leon are standing behind her. I don’t want to deal with her. So I tell Vince and Leon to go and get boxes. And I ask my sister to help Letty pack her stuff, after all we’ll need a nursery for my daughter and I am happy to see her pale, hear her suck in a shocked breath. And best of all I never had to say a word to her.

I’ve been sitting in my room for the last 4 hours just reading the letters. How he had to run from the cops. When he found out he was pregnant. How he ended up in Miami. I was right. The first letters were filled with how much he missed me, how much he loved me. His happiness at finding out he was pregnant. He had wanted me to be with him when our baby was born. Then the letters changed they were uncertain, confused. He didn’t understand why I didn’t come back and get him why I didn’t send for him. Why I didn’t want him anymore. Why I didn’t want our baby. He thought maybe I didn’t believe him so he sent the sonogram picture. Towards the end of the pregnancy the letters changed again. There was no love in them only anger, only fear; he knew he was gonna get caught, he begged me to come for our child, to not let our baby end up in foster care. The last letter was angry. So angry, he hated me. He demanded to know why I’d bothered to tell him I loved him if it wasn’t true; He would have let me go even if I hadn’t said it.

I want to cry, to scream, to destroy. I need to get it together; I need to figure out how to convince him that I never knew. That I never would have let him go through that. That I *never* would have let our baby end up in foster care. If only I had known, if only I had gotten one of the letters, if only I hadn’t trust Letty with the mail, if only I hadn’t given up after that first letter when I didn’t hear from him. Lot’s of if only. I need to do something, anything. I’m gonna write him a letter. I’m going to beg him to believe me.