I took him to my house because I would not place Poppy inside his car, and I would not let him turn our first conversation into a spectacle on Main Street.
He followed behind us while Raymond drove.
At the house, Poppy crawled across the faded rug while Graham sat on the edge of my mother’s old armchair.
The room seemed too small for him, not because of his size, but because everything around him showed what his absence had cost.
The patched curtain.
The laundry drying near the radiator.
The washing machine that worked only when I held the lid down.
A row of baby-food jars beside a stack of unpaid medical bills.
Graham saw all of it.
I placed the unopened envelope on the table between us.
“Read it.”
He broke the seal carefully.
The pages shook as he unfolded them.
I remembered every line.
Graham, I waited because I believed you.
I know you asked for time, and I tried to give it to you.
But I am eight months pregnant, and I cannot let our child enter the world without giving you the chance to know.
I am afraid of what your family will do if they learn about me.
I am more afraid that you will think I stayed silent because I wanted something from you.
I do not want your company.
I do not want your name.
I want the man who sat in the café during a storm and promised that when this was over, he would come back.
If that man is gone, tell me the truth.
If he is still there, please come before our daughter is born.
Graham stopped reading.
His eyes were wet, but I felt no satisfaction.
“She was born three weeks after that arrived,” I said.
He looked toward Poppy.
She had pulled herself upright against the sofa and was chewing the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
“A daughter,” he whispered.
“Her name is Poppy.”
He repeated it quietly.
“Does she know who I am?”
“She knows you’re a man standing in her living room.”
Pain crossed his face.
He folded the letter along its original creases.
“I never knew.”
“I believe that now.”
It was not forgiveness.
He understood.
Graham explained that the investigation into Westlake Global had begun weeks before he left Maple Ridge.
Regulators were examining contracts signed by one of the company’s foreign divisions.
Reporters had followed him, photographed anyone near him, and tried to turn every private relationship into evidence of corruption.
His family had demanded that he cut off personal contact until the inquiry ended.
He had refused at first.
Then someone photographed me leaving his hotel, and a reporter appeared at the café asking whether Graham had given me money.
That was when Graham told me to wait.
He said he would return when he could protect me.
The investigation lasted longer than either of us expected.
During that time, all mail addressed to him outside approved channels was routed through Westlake Global’s security office.
Items considered suspicious were sent to the legal department.
“My letter was considered suspicious?” I asked.
“The tracking record says it was accepted by executive security and transferred the same day.”
“Transferred where?”
“To my father’s office.”
The room became quiet.
