Richard paused.
“Your father had been intercepting the mail.”
Silence.
Suddenly, the alley felt too small around me.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Richard didn’t argue.
Instead, he opened another folder.
Inside were photographs.
My father standing beside a mailbox.
My father carrying envelopes into the house.
My father shredding papers.
My father throwing something into a trash bin.
Dates appeared beneath every photograph.
Six years ago.
Five years ago.
Four years ago.
Three.
Two.
One.
My hands started trembling.
“He knew,” I whispered.
“He knew your grandfather was trying to reach you.”
Richard nodded.
“And he made sure you never knew.”
I turned away.
For eighteen years, I’d believed my grandfather had abandoned us.
