The room went still. My ears rang.
"Sit down," I whispered to no one. "Honey, please just sit down."
Noah pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. The paper was soft at the edges, the way paper gets when it has been opened and folded a hundred times.
He cleared his throat.
"I'm finally ready to tell everyone what my bio mom really did," he said, "and why she disappeared."
The room went still. My ears rang.
He unfolded the letter.
"Her name was Tessa," Noah continued, his voice trembling. "And for eighteen years, my mom, the woman who raised me and my brother, has believed Tessa left us because she didn't want us."
He unfolded the letter.
"This is in her handwriting. She wrote one letter for both of us, but she sent it to me because I was the one who'd written back. She trusted me to choose the moment. I want to read it the way she wrote it."
I gripped the edge of my seat.
A small sound escaped me. The woman beside me glanced over.
"My sweet boys," Noah read. "By the time you understand this, you'll be grown. I need you to know I did not leave because I didn't love you. I left because I was sick."
A small sound escaped me. The woman beside me glanced over.
"Weeks after your father died," Noah read, "the doctors told me what was coming. I was told I had years, not a lifetime, and I couldn't bear for your first memories of me to be a mother slipping away."
His voice cracked.
