Dr.
Robert Wright kept the phone in his hand, but his eyes had left the screen.
They were fixed on my folder.
More specifically, on the sealed cream-colored envelope tucked between my hospital papers and the receipts I had carried through seven months of abandonment.
I had never seen it before.
“What envelope?” I asked.
No one answered immediately.
The nurse, Claire, stepped closer to the bed.
Dr.
Wright ended the call without saying goodbye to his son.
The room felt suddenly colder.
I looked down at my newborn, asleep against my chest as if the world had not just split open around him.
Then I reached for the folder.
My fingers were still swollen from labor.
The envelope caught against one of the plastic sleeves before sliding free.
A name was written across the front.
ROBERT WRIGHT.
The handwriting was Logan’s.
Dr.
Wright sat down hard in the chair beside my bed.
“Where did you get that?”
“I told you.
I’ve never seen it before.”
“Think carefully.”
I almost snapped at him, but the fear on his face stopped me.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the previous twenty-four hours.
The suitcase.
The cab driver helping me onto the sidewalk.
The receptionist taking my pre-registration folder.
A nurse returning it after checking my identification.
Nothing else.
Then I remembered.
Three weeks earlier, an envelope had arrived at the laundromat where I rented my room.
No return address.
Just my name.
Inside had been copies of old insurance documents that I assumed Logan had sent because my name was still attached to one of his former policies.
I had shoved everything into my hospital folder without reading closely.
“It may have come in the mail,” I said.
Dr.
Wright looked at me.
“From Logan?”
“Maybe.”
He reached toward the envelope, then stopped.
“It has my name on it.”
I handed it to him.
He stared at the seal for several seconds before opening it.
Inside were four pages and a photograph.
The photograph slipped out first.
It showed Logan at maybe seventeen years old, standing beside Dr.
Wright in front of a lake.
They both wore fishing jackets.
Logan was smiling.
Dr.
Wright wasn’t looking at the camera.
He was looking at his son.
For a moment, the anger left his face.
Then he unfolded the pages.
I watched his eyes move across the first paragraph.
His expression changed.
“What is it?”
He did not answer.
“Dr.
Wright.”
His hand tightened around the paper.
Finally, he said, “It’s a letter from Logan.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he put it in my folder?”
Dr.
Wright kept reading.
Claire glanced at me.
She looked as confused as I felt.
Then Dr.
Wright reached the second page.
He inhaled sharply.
“Robert?” Claire said.
He looked up.
“He knew.”
My stomach clenched.
“Knew what?”
“That you might come here to deliver.”
I stared at him.
“Of course he knew.
Mercy Creek was on every form.”
“No.”
Dr.
Wright stood.
“He knew I might be here.”
The monitor beside my bed continued its steady rhythm.
I looked at the letter in his hand.
“Read it.”
He hesitated.
“Read it out loud.”
His eyes dropped to the page.
The letter began with an apology.
Not to me.
To him.
Dad,
By the time
