He remembered waiting outside the delivery room.
Michael pacing the hallway.
Eleanor crying with happiness.
A nurse eventually emerged.
“It’s a beautiful baby girl.”
Amber.
Everyone celebrated.
There had never been any mention of a boy.
Ever.
Wilbur searched frantically through the box.
The leather journal opened easily.
The first page was written in Eleanor’s careful handwriting.
October 15.
I don’t know how to forgive my daughter.
I don’t even know if forgiveness is what she deserves.
Yesterday Jennifer gave birth to twins.
One little girl.
One little boy.
She told everyone the boy died.
But he didn’t.
Wilbur gasped.
The words seemed impossible.
His eyes raced across the page.
Michael agreed with her.
They believed raising two babies would ruin their lives.
They wanted freedom.
Money.
Travel.
The doctor refused to help them.
The nurse threatened to report them.
Then Daniel Cross stepped in.
He was the social worker assigned to the maternity ward.
Instead of allowing Jennifer to abandon the child illegally, he arranged a confidential emergency adoption.
Legally.
Quietly.
The little boy survived.
He went to a wonderful family who loved him with all their hearts.
Jennifer told everyone—including you—that there had only been one baby.
I begged her to tell you the truth.
She refused.
She said you would never forgive her.
Perhaps she was right.
Wilbur dropped the journal onto the table.
The room began spinning.
Twins.
Amber had a brother.
A brother she never knew existed.
And he…
He had another grandchild.
Somewhere.
Living an entirely different life.
For twenty-three years.
He leaned back in the chair, tears running freely down his face.
Not because the child had been adopted.
There were families who couldn’t have children.
Perhaps that little boy had indeed grown up loved.
No…
He cried because twenty-three years of birthdays had passed.
Twenty-three Christmas mornings.
Twenty-three chances to know his grandson.
Gone.
Stolen.
Not by strangers.
By his own daughter.
A gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.
Linda opened the door slightly.
“Mr. Morgan?”
Wilbur couldn’t answer.
She saw the hospital bracelet lying beside the journal.
Her expression changed.
“So…”
She whispered.
“You know.”
He nodded slowly.
“My grandson…”
His voice cracked.
“I have a grandson.”
Linda walked over carefully.
“There may be something else.”
She pointed toward the bottom of the box.
Wilbur looked again.
Hidden beneath the manila envelope was another sealed envelope.
Across the front Eleanor had written only one sentence.
Open this only after you learn the truth about the twins.
With trembling hands, Wilbur broke the seal.
Inside was a recent photograph.
A smiling young man stood beside a red pickup truck, one arm around an older couple who were obviously his adoptive parents.
He looked no older than twenty-three.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Kind eyes.
Eyes that looked startlingly familiar.
Wilbur’s own blue eyes.
On the back of the photograph Eleanor had written:
His name is Nathan.
He has no idea who you are.
But every year on your birthday…
…he unknowingly visits the very park where you and I first fell in love.
And next Saturday…
…he’ll be there again.
