answer.
Because I already knew the answer I needed wouldn’t come from him.
“I need to find Caleb.”
Grandpa closed his eyes.
“I need to hear the truth from him.”
He held Nora for another moment.
Then carefully handed her back.
That night, after Nora was asleep in the crib Grandpa had made, I opened the cedar box.
For the first time in my life.
If Grandpa had hidden an entire part of my childhood from me, I needed to know what else had been buried.
Under the scarves, I found a photograph.
I was four years old.
Sitting on a red bicycle.
Behind me stood a dark-haired boy.
One hand rested on the handlebars.
And his eyes were unmistakable.
One light.
One dark.
Caleb.
Underneath the photograph were the letters.
The earliest was written in a child’s uneven handwriting.
Dear Sarah,
Where did the little girl go?
Did she
