Caleb.
My hands began shaking.
Under the picture was a bundle of letters.
The first had been written in the uneven handwriting of a child.
Caleb wanted to know where Sarah and “the little girl” had gone.
He asked whether I had taken my bicycle.
He asked my mother to write back.
The next letters were older.
More mature.
In one, he had slipped money he’d saved from his allowance into the envelope and asked Mom to use it for me.
Another mentioned a trust his grandfather had established for him—money Caleb believed he might someday use to help us once he was old enough to access it without his father’s interference.
I sat on the bedroom floor surrounded by paper, barely able to process what I was reading.
Caleb had remembered me.
Not vaguely.
Not by accident.
He had remembered me for years.
Then I found the final letter.
