Shorter than the first letter.
Written in the same hand.
“Tom — if you’re reading this, then Chris did what I asked.
He brought the girls to the beach.
He waited until you were close enough to hear them.
Then he left.”
My hands were shaking so hard the paper rattled.
“I told him not to tell you.
I told him to let you find them on your own.
I was afraid that if you knew they were yours — if you knew they survived — you’d spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for not being there.
For not saving me.
For not knowing.”
Emily put her hand on my shoulder.
“I didn’t want that.
I wanted you to find them the way you found them — like a gift.
Like something good that came out of the worst day of your life.”
Grace was crying again.
Quietly.
Not wiping her face.
“Chris will hate me for asking this.
He’ll hate himself for doing it.
But I trust him.
And I trust you.”
I looked up at my girls.
“Raise our girls.
Love them.
And when they’re old enough — when they can understand — tell them about me.
Tell them I wanted them.
Tell them I chose their names before I knew I’d never hold them.”
I read the last line out loud.
“Emily.
Grace.
I picked those names the day I found out there were two.
I love you.
All three of you.
Forever.
Naomi.”
I folded the letter.
