I pulled the envelope toward me.
Alison grabbed the other end. "Some of those papers concern my family."
"They concern the morning mine disappeared."
"Carly, before you open it..."
She released it.
Old payment records slid across the table, followed by a folded agreement and a smaller envelope with yellowed edges.
My name was written across the front in Dad's uneven handwriting.
"Why do you have that?"
"Calvin gave it to me before he left."
"He wrote to me?"
"Calvin gave it to me before he left."
"He asked me to deliver it when you were older."
"You kept it for 20 years?"
"I thought it would reopen the damage."
"It would've told me I hadn't imagined him loving me. You don't know how many cars I watched from our window or how often I wondered what I'd done wrong."
Tears blurred his handwriting.
"You kept it for 20 years?"
"I was afraid," Alison said.
"You were protecting yourself."
I pulled out my phone and photographed every page.
Alison stood. "What are you doing?"
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