Adrian’s eyes lifted. “So you think it is him?”
“No,” I said too fast. Then, “I don’t know.”
He sat down hard in the kitchen chair. “What if it is?”
I looked at my son, legally an adult for a few hours and suddenly looking twelve again, and I knew I had two choices. I could downplay it and tell him to forget it. Or I could face whatever this was with him.
So I sat across from him and said, “Then we find out.”
We went that afternoon.
The whole drive there, Adrian bounced between silence and nervous talking.
“What if he’s dead?”
“He signed the letter.”
“That doesn’t mean recently.”
“Please do not become more dramatic than the situation already is.”
He glanced out the window. “What if he wants to meet me?”
I tightened my hands on the wheel. “Then you decide what to do.”
“What would you do?”
The honest answer was that I would slam every door in his face. But Adrian was not me. This was his life too.
So I said, “I would get the truth first.”
The law office was on the second floor of an old brick building downtown. The receptionist had the kind of calm voice that made every terrible situation sound like a dentist appointment.
“Name?” she asked.
“Adrian.”
She typed something, looked at him, then stood. “One moment.”
When she came back, she was holding a large sealed envelope with his name written across the front.
My heart started pounding.
Adrian took it with both hands.
“Would you like a room?” she asked gently.
I frowned. “A room?”
She gave a careful little nod. “Mr. Merrick said you might prefer privacy.”
That chilled me more than anything else so far. We followed her into a small conference room. Wood table, two chairs, and a box of tissues shoved to one side like they already knew what kind of meetings happened there.
Adrian sat. I stayed standing because I felt like if I sat down, I might not get back up.
He broke the seal.
Inside was another envelope, this one older, yellowed slightly at the edges. There were several folded letters. And on top was a typed note from the attorney.
Mr. Adrian Walker,
Enclosed, as instructed years ago by my late client Harold Walker, are personal letters to be delivered upon your eighteenth birthday. Mr. Thomas Bell facilitated the annual correspondence and gifts at your grandfather’s request.
If you have questions after reading, I am available.
Sincerely, James Merrick
Adrian looked up so fast I thought he had hurt his neck.
“My grandfather?” he said.
I felt the floor tilt under me.
Harold.
My father.
I sat down without meaning to.
My dad had died when Adrian was still a baby. Cancer. Fast and ugly. By the end, he barely had the strength to lift his head, but he still asked me every day, “How’s my boy?” like Adrian was the sun rising and setting.
