A knock startled me.
I opened the door.
A young woman stood beside a diaper bag.
“I’m Hannah. I’m sorry. I stepped just went to the car to get their bag. I could see them the whole time.”
“You’re their mother? Hannah?”
She nodded.
A knock startled me.
I stepped aside.
“Come in, please. I’m Denise.”
Hannah went straight to the babies.
“Where’s Lucas?” I asked.
“Nearby.”
“Is he all right?”
Hannah went straight to the babies.
“Yes. But he’s afraid you’ll turn him away.”
I stared at her.
“Tell him I’ve spent three years looking for him. Then ask him what he thinks I’m afraid of.”
I was 46 when that letter arrived.
Lucas had been 18 when he disappeared on an ordinary January morning.
He’d eaten breakfast at the kitchen counter, complained that he was running late, and grabbed his backpack.
