My eyes stayed fixed on the signature at the bottom of the page.
Eleanor.
My mother’s name was written there in the same precise handwriting I had seen on birthday cards, school permission slips, condolence notes, and thousands of little messages she had left for me throughout my life.
For several seconds, I heard nothing but the wind moving through the oak branches above us.
Then I read the letter again.
It was dated five years earlier.
Madeline, it said, had been informed that I wanted no further contact.
My future demanded complete focus.
Any attempt to reach me would only make matters more painful.
There was also an offer of money—a substantial amount at the time—if she agreed to leave quietly and stop trying to contact me.
The language was polished, restrained, almost businesslike.
That made it worse.
At the end, beneath the final paragraph, was Eleanor’s signature.
I looked at my mother.
“You wrote this.”
She pressed her lips together.
“Arthur—”
“You told her I didn’t want her.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
Madeline gave another hollow laugh from the bench.
There was no triumph in it.
She looked too tired for triumph.
I turned to the other pages.
Three envelopes were folded behind the letter.
Each had been addressed to me in Madeline’s handwriting.
Each had been returned.
I recognized the address immediately.
It was the temporary office I used during the first explosive year of my company’s expansion.
I had practically lived there.
“I never saw these,” I said.
“I know,” Madeline replied.
“How?”
“Because the first one came back unopened.”
She adjusted one of the sleeping children against her shoulder.
“The second came back too.
After that, I went there myself.”
I looked at Eleanor again.
Madeline continued before my mother could speak.
“I waited in the lobby for nearly three hours.
I was told you were unavailable.
Then your mother came down.”
A memory struck me with uncomfortable force.
Five years earlier, during those months, Eleanor had visited my office constantly.
I had thought she was worried about me.
She brought food.
She reminded me about investor dinners.
She intercepted calls when I was buried in negotiations because I told everyone around me I couldn’t afford distractions.
I had handed her the opportunity without realizing it.
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears.
Madeline answered for her.
“She said you knew about the pregnancy.”
My breath caught.
“She said you had already made your decision.”
I looked at my mother.
