My hands began to shake.
I turned the page.
Another letter.
Adrian,
I’m not asking you to come back to me. I’m asking you to decide whether you want to know your children. If you do, write to me at the address below.
The date was six weeks after the birth.
There were more.
A letter written three months later. Another after their first birthday. A final one dated nine months ago.
You once said I made everything difficult. Maybe this is the only way I know how to make something simple. If you want a place in their lives, you need to come honestly—not as a Moretti, not with lawyers, guards, or money. Just as yourself.
I looked up.
“Why didn’t I get these?”
“I sent them.”
“Where?”
“To your office.”
“Which address?”
“The one I had.”
I shook my head. “My office receives everything.”
