on the oldest envelope.

The house was smaller than I remembered.

Still large.

Still elegant.

But not the mansion my childhood memory had created.

The garden, however, was exactly the same.

I knocked.

An older man answered.

Gray hair.

Thinner now.

But I recognized his eyes.

William.

“You look exactly like your mother,” he said.

I tightened my hold on Nora.

“I need to see Caleb.”

“Caleb isn’t available.”

“Then tell me why he left.”

William looked at Nora.

For one brief second, recognition flashed across his face.

The curls.

The chin.

Those eyes.

Then his expression went flat.

“He knew you were  pregnant.”

He paused.

“And he chose to leave.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That isn’t my problem.”

He stepped back.

“Go home.”

As I turned away, another memory came rushing back.

My mother crying.

William shouting.

His voice following us down these same steps.

Don’t come back.

Then