I kept reading.
Gwen wrote that Andrew had come home shaken the night I told him. That their mother found out. That everything changed in a matter of hours.
That they left early.
That he begged to come see me.
That he wasn’t allowed.
And then—
Letters.
He wrote letters.
Dozens of them.
I never got one.
I pushed my chair back so fast it scraped hard against the floor.
“No.”
“Mom…”
“No. That’s not possible.”
“There’s more,” Leo said softly.
Some letters were thrown away.
Some were hidden.
Some were kept.
In a box.
Eighteen years.
Gone.
I turned toward the door just as my parents walked in.
“I brought dinner—” my mom started.
“He wrote,” I said.
Everything stopped.
My dad leaned in. “Who?”
“Andrew.”
They read the messages in silence.
Then my dad swore under his breath.
“If I had known…” he muttered. “I would’ve gone to that house myself.”
And just like that, it hit me.
Not just what I lost.
What was taken.
We drove out that evening.
Two counties over. No plan. Just a name and an address.
Gwen opened the door before we knocked.
She had his face.
That nearly broke me.
“Heather?” she asked.
I nodded.
