“Did Luke have contact with her?”
“He sent letters.”
“Did Emma answer?”
“I don’t know.”
Luke did.
When I asked him about the letters, he disappeared into his room and returned carrying an old shoebox.
Inside were copies of dozens of letters.
Birthday letters.
Christmas letters.
Letters asking about school.
Letters asking how she was doing.
And almost every letter ended with the same sentence.
I’m still your brother.
“She never answered one,” Luke said.
A few days later, Denise called me.
She had spoken with Emma’s adoptive parents.
Their names were Rachel and David.
“They’re willing to talk,” Denise said. “But they want to move slowly.”
“Maybe we should wait before putting Luke and Emma in the same room,” she continued. “Let the adults work through the history first.”
I stared at the phone.
“The adults have been deciding what those two can handle for years.”
“Caroline—”
“I’m not asking you to throw them together without support.”
I took a breath.
“I’m asking you not to turn ‘slowly’ into another few years.”
Denise was quiet.
“If Luke wants it and Emma wants it,” I continued, “then let’s arrange a supervised meeting.”
Eventually, everyone agreed.
Luke almost refused to go.
“What if she doesn’t want me?”
“Then we’ll respect that.”
“What if she hates me?”
“Then you’ll survive hearing the truth.”
He swallowed.
“What if she forgot me?”
I couldn’t answer that one.
Emma’s adoptive parents, Rachel and David, met us in their living room.
Rachel looked nervous.
David looked ashamed.
The first few minutes were painfully uncomfortable.
Everyone seemed to be searching for the right words.
Eventually, Rachel went upstairs.
When she came back, she was carrying a plastic storage bin.
She set it down in front of Luke.
