The year Martha and I married.
Every envelope was addressed to her.
Every letter signed by the same name.
Daniel.
My hands trembled as I opened one.
“My dearest Martha…”
The letter spoke about missing her, about longing to come home, about dreams of the future.
But the final line stopped my heart cold.
“I will come for you and our son when the time is right.”
Our son?
I read more letters.
The story unfolded slowly, piece by piece.
Daniel wrote about a child named James.
About watching him grow from a distance.
About how proud he was of the boy.
James.
My firstborn son.
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