PART 3 — THE SON MY FAMILY STOLE FROM ME
My father stood in the snow holding a photograph of a ten-year-old boy. Then he whispered, “Mauricio, your son is alive. And he has been asking for you every Christmas since he was four.” But when my sister tried to escape with a suitcase, I realized the photograph wasn’t the only secret she was hiding.
I stared at my father.
For a moment, I couldn’t hear the wind or the Christmas music drifting through the open front door.
All I could hear was one word.
Son.
I had a son.
Somewhere in the world, a ten-year-old boy existed who might have my blood, my eyes, my smile.
And the people standing in front of me had known about him for years.
“Where is he?” I asked.
My father lowered the photograph.
“Mauricio, please understand—”
“WHERE IS MY SON?”
My sister Paola flinched.
She gripped the handle of her suitcase.
“We don’t have to do this here.”
I turned toward her.
“You’re right. We should have done this ten years ago.”
She looked away.
My father stepped forward.
“His name is Luca.”
I swallowed.
“Luca DeLuca?”
He nodded.
I looked at the photograph.
The boy had dark brown hair, serious eyes, and a small dimple in his left cheek.
The same dimple I’d had since childhood.
He wore a navy school blazer and a crooked tie.
He looked intelligent.
A little shy.
And heartbreakingly familiar.
“Where does he live?”
Paola finally answered.
“At a boarding school in Connecticut.”
I stared at her.
“A boarding school?”
She nodded.
“He’s well cared for.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Well cared for? You mean the way Renata was well cared for in that kitchen?”
Paola’s face reddened.
“That’s unfair.”
“UNFAIR?”
I stepped closer.
“Unfair is a six-year-old washing dishes while her cousins open presents. Unfair is a mother dying without knowing whether her children are safe. Unfair is a father discovering he has a ten-year-old son on Christmas Day!”
My father whispered, “Mauricio, lower your voice.”
I turned on him.
“Never say those words to me again.”
He fell silent.
Inside the car, Renata pressed her little hand against the window.
I immediately softened.
Whatever happened next, I would not allow her to witness another ugly confrontation.
I walked to her door.
“Sweetheart, Daddy needs to make a phone call. Are you warm enough?”
She nodded.
“Are we getting pancakes?”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“Yes, baby.”
She looked past me.
“Why is Aunt Paola crying?”
I glanced toward my sister.
“Because the grown-ups have some things to work out.”
Renata hugged her rabbit.
“Okay. But can we go home soon?”
“Very soon.”
I closed the door and returned to my father.
“Give me the photograph.”
He handed it over.
On the back was a school stamp.
ASHCROFT ACADEMY — CONNECTICUT
Underneath was a handwritten date.
December 3.
Three weeks earlier.
I stared at it.
“Who took this?”
Paola hesitated.
“The school photographer.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Because I’m his emergency contact.”
“And why are you his emergency contact?”
She swallowed.
“Because I’ve been helping raise him.”
The words struck me.
“Helping whom?”
Paola looked toward our father.
He lowered his head.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Who has legal custody of Luca?”
Neither answered.
Then a voice came from behind us.
“I do.”
My mother stood in the doorway.
Carmen DeLuca had changed out of her Christmas sweater.
She wore a black coat and carried a leather handbag.
Her expression was no longer frightened.
It was cold.
Controlled.
Almost defiant.
I stared at her.
“You?”
She lifted her chin.
“Luca is under my guardianship.”
I felt sick.
“You told Isabella her baby died?”
My mother didn’t answer.
“Did you?”
She looked toward Paola.
“Go inside.”
Paola shook her head.
“No, Mom. I’m done.”
My mother narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t be foolish.”
Paola stepped away from her.
“For ten years, you’ve told us everything was necessary. Every lie. Every document. Every time Luca asked questions.”
My mother stiffened.
“Paola.”
“No.”
My sister began crying.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
I looked between them.
“Tell me what happened.”
Paola covered her mouth.
Then she spoke.
“Isabella gave birth to Luca in a private hospital outside Boston.”
My chest tightened.
“Was I there?”
“No. You didn’t even know she was pregnant.”
I closed my eyes.
Paola continued.
“Mom arranged everything. She told Isabella that she would pay the medical expenses because the pregnancy was complicated.”
My mother snapped, “She needed help!”
Paola ignored her.
“Luca was born early. He had breathing problems and spent several days in intensive care.”
My heart pounded.
“Then what?”
Paola began shaking.
“Mom told Isabella that he hadn’t survived.”
I stared at my mother.
She looked away.
“Isabella was devastated,” Paola whispered. “She left the hospital believing her son was dead.”
“And Luca?”
Paola wiped her eyes.
“He survived.”
The world seemed to tilt.
My son had been alive.
His mother had been alive.
I had been alive.
And three people had deliberately kept us apart.
“Why?” I whispered.
My mother finally spoke.
“Because Isabella would have used him to force her way into this family.”
I looked at her in disbelief.
“She was the woman I loved.”
“She wasn’t suitable!”
“She was carrying my child!”
My mother stepped forward.
“And I was protecting the future you’d worked so hard to build.”
I shook my head.
“No. You were protecting the future YOU wanted me to have.”
She said nothing.
I turned toward Paola.
“What happened to Luca after the hospital?”
My sister took a shaky breath.
“Mom arranged for him to be placed with a private caregiver. Later, she obtained guardianship through documents that claimed Isabella couldn’t be located.”
I stared at my mother.
“You knew exactly where Isabella was.”
My mother lowered her eyes.
Paola continued.
“When Luca was four, Mom decided he should attend Ashcroft. She told him his parents had died.”
My knees nearly buckled.
Both parents.
Dead.
My son believed I was dead.
“Does he know anything about me?”
Paola nodded slowly.
“He found an old photograph of you in Mom’s study.”
I looked at her.
“What photograph?”
“One from your college graduation.”
I remembered it.
I was standing beside my father, smiling in a navy suit.
Paola began crying harder.
“Luca asked who you were. Mom told him you were a distant relative who had passed away.”
I closed my eyes.
“He kept the photograph,” she whispered.
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
“Because he said you looked like him.”
I couldn’t speak.
Paola continued.
“Every Christmas, he asks whether someone from his family will come visit him. He says he dreams about meeting someone who has his smile.”
I turned away.
The snow was falling harder.
I pressed the photograph against my chest.
Ten Christmases.
Ten birthdays.
Ten years of bedtime stories I had never read.
Ten years of scraped knees I had never kissed.
And somewhere in Connecticut, my little boy had been waiting for a father who didn’t know he existed.
My phone vibrated.
Eleanor Harrison was still on the line.
“Mr. DeLuca?”
I lifted it.
“I’m here.”
“Please tell me you’re not confronting your family.”
I looked at my mother.
“It’s a little late for that.”
Eleanor sighed.
“Listen carefully. Do not sign anything. Do not hand over the documents. And please do not attempt to remove Luca from school yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to establish your legal rights properly. If the guardianship documents are fraudulent, the court must address that.”
I swallowed.
“How long will that take?”
“I can’t promise a timeline. But we can request an emergency review if the evidence supports it.”
I looked at Paola’s suitcase.
“What about the transfer overseas?”
There was silence.
Then Eleanor asked, “Has someone confirmed that?”
“My sister is standing here with a suitcase.”
Paola’s face drained of color.
I stared at her.
“Were you going to move Luca?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
She began trembling.
“Because Mom told me to.”
My mother snapped, “Paola, enough!”
But Paola kept talking.
“She wanted me to collect Luca tomorrow and take him to a school in Switzerland.”
My heart stopped.
“Tomorrow?”
Paola nodded.
“His transfer paperwork was supposed to be completed before New Year’s.”
I looked at my mother.
“You were going to send my son out of the country?”
She straightened.
“It was for his education.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It was because you knew I was about to find him.”
For the first time, she had no answer.
Eleanor’s voice came through the phone.
“Mr. DeLuca, I need you to preserve everything you have. I’m contacting our litigation team tonight.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
“And Mauricio?”
“Yes?”
“Isabella left a recording specifically for you.”
My breath caught.
“What recording?”
“She made it shortly before she died.”
I gripped the phone.
“Can I hear it?”
“Tomorrow. I would prefer to explain the circumstances first.”
I closed my eyes.
Then Eleanor said something unexpected.
“She wanted you to know that she never blamed you.”
I felt tears spill down my cheeks.
“She should have.”
“No,” Eleanor replied. “She believed you had been deceived too.”
I couldn’t answer.
After ending the call, I looked at my family.
“I am going to find my son.”
My mother folded her arms.
“You’ll only confuse him.”
I stared at her.
“Confuse him?”
“He’s had a stable life.”
I shook my head.
“He’s had a life built on lies.”
My father stepped forward.
“Mauricio, perhaps we can discuss—”
“No.”
I pointed toward the house.
“You will not contact Renata. You will not contact Luca. You will not make decisions about either child without proper legal authority.”
My mother scoffed.
“You can’t erase us from their lives.”
I looked at her.
“You erased me from theirs.”
She fell silent.
I turned toward Paola.
“Do you have Luca’s phone number?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
My mother shouted, “Paola, don’t!”
Paola took out her phone.
For a moment, she stared at the screen.
Then she sent me the number.
My phone chimed.
A Connecticut area code.
A number belonging to my son.
I stared at it.
I wanted to call immediately.
I wanted to hear his voice.
I wanted to tell him I was alive.
That I loved him.
That I had been looking for him since the moment I learned he existed.
But I remembered Eleanor’s warning.
Luca had spent ten years believing his parents were dead.
A sudden call from a stranger claiming to be his father could frighten him.
He deserved the truth carefully.
Not another adult making decisions without considering his feelings.
I saved the number.
Then I got into the car.
Renata smiled.
“Daddy! Are we going?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
I started the engine.
As we drove away, she looked at the photograph resting on the passenger seat.
“Who’s that boy?”
I glanced at her.
I hesitated.
Then I smiled gently.
“His name is Luca.”
“Is he your friend?”
I swallowed.
“He might be someone very special to us.”
Renata leaned forward.
“Does he like Christmas?”
I looked at the snowy road.
“I hope so.”
She thought for a moment.
“Maybe we should buy him a present.”
I felt tears rising again.
“What kind of present?”
She smiled.
“A stuffed rabbit. Like Buttons. So he won’t be lonely.”
I had to pull over.
I sat with my hands on the steering wheel, crying silently.
Renata waited patiently.
Then she whispered, “Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Are you sad because that boy doesn’t have a daddy?”
I turned toward her.
“No, baby.”
I wiped my eyes.
“I’m sad because he does.”
That night, Renata and I made pancakes for Christmas dinner.
We decorated a tiny artificial tree in our living room.
I wrapped three presents I’d bought earlier that week and placed them beneath it.
Renata laughed as she opened a dollhouse, a painting set, and a purple bicycle helmet.
For a little while, the world felt normal.
Then, after I tucked her into bed, I sat alone at the kitchen table.
The photograph of Luca lay beside Isabella’s letter.
I read her words again.
I never stopped loving you.
I covered my face.
“I’m sorry, Isabella,” I whispered.
“I should have found you.”
At 11:47 p.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, there was silence.
Then a small voice spoke.
“Is this Mauricio DeLuca?”
My heart stopped.
“Yes.”
The boy hesitated.
“My name is Luca.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Hello, Luca.”
There was another pause.
Then he asked a question that shattered me.
“Are you the man in the photograph?”
I closed my eyes.
“What photograph, sweetheart?”
“The one Grandma said I wasn’t allowed to keep.”
My hands began shaking.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I think I am.”
He took a breath.
Then he said:
“Grandma told me you died.”
Tears streamed down my face.
“I’m here, Luca.”
The boy was silent.
Then he whispered:
“If you’re really alive… why didn’t you ever come find me?”
And before I could answer, I heard a woman’s voice in the background.
“Luca! Who are you talking to?”
My blood ran cold.
It was my mother.
The phone disconnected.
PART 4 — THE MIDNIGHT CALL THAT LED ME TO MY SON
My ten-year-old son called me on Christmas night and asked why I had never come looking for him. Before I could explain, my mother’s voice interrupted the call. But what happened at the boarding school the next morning revealed that she had been hiding something even more disturbing.
I stared at my phone.
The call had ended.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
My son had spoken to me.
For the first time in ten years, I had heard his voice.
And his first real question had been why I had abandoned him.
I pressed the number to call back.
Then stopped.
I remembered Eleanor’s warning.
If my mother was with Luca, another call could cause her to panic.
I needed help.
I called Eleanor Harrison.
She answered after two rings.
“Mauricio?”
“Luca just called me.”
There was silence.
“What?”
“He called me from his phone. He asked why I never came looking for him.”
Eleanor inhaled sharply.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. But I heard my mother’s voice before the call disconnected.”
Her tone changed.
“Are you certain?”
“I’ve known that voice my entire life.”
“Listen carefully. Save the call record and write down everything he said.”
I grabbed a notebook.
My hands shook as I wrote.
11:47 p.m.
Christmas night.
Luca.
Are you the man in the photograph?
Grandma told me you died.
Why didn’t you ever come find me?
I stared at those words.
They looked unbearable on paper.
Eleanor continued.
“I’m going to contact the school’s administration and the attorney handling the guardianship matter. We need to establish where Luca is and whether anyone is attempting to move him.”
“Can I go there?”
“You can travel to Connecticut. But do not attempt to take him from anyone’s custody. We need to protect both of you.”
I nodded.
“Understood.”
After the call, I sat in silence.
Then I heard footsteps.
Renata stood in the hallway, wearing pink pajamas and holding Buttons.
“Daddy?”
I wiped my face.
“What are you doing awake, sweetheart?”
She walked toward me.
“I heard you crying.”
I lifted her into my lap.
“I’m okay.”
She studied my face.
“You don’t look okay.”
I smiled sadly.
“Sometimes grown-ups cry when something important happens.”
She leaned against my chest.
“Did you find that boy?”
I looked at Luca’s photograph.
“Yes, baby. I think I did.”
“Is he nice?”
I swallowed.
“I think he’s very nice.”
She smiled.
“Can he come to our house?”
I kissed her hair.
“I hope so.”
Renata yawned.
“Then we should make more pancakes.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Yes. We should.”
The next morning, I drove Renata to my longtime friend Daniel’s house.
Daniel and his wife, Teresa, had known her since she was two.
They adored her.
When Teresa opened the door, she immediately noticed my expression.
“Mauricio, what happened?”
I glanced at Renata.
“Can we talk in the kitchen?”
Teresa nodded.
Daniel took Renata to see their Christmas decorations.
I explained what had happened.
Not every detail.
Only enough.
By the time I finished, Teresa was crying.
“Your mother did what?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t even know the full story yet.”
Daniel stared at me.
“And you have a son?”
“Possibly. The evidence is strong, but we need proper confirmation.”
He put a hand on my shoulder.
“Whatever you need, we’re here.”
I looked toward the living room.
Renata was laughing at their golden retriever.
“Can she stay with you while I meet the attorney?”
“Of course,” Teresa said.
I knelt beside Renata.
“Daddy has to go somewhere important.”
She frowned.
“Are you going to find Luca?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
She reached into her little backpack.
Then pulled out Buttons.
Her favorite stuffed rabbit.
The one she’d slept with every night since she was three.
She held it toward me.
“Give him this.”
My throat tightened.
“Sweetheart, Buttons is yours.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“Are you sure?”
She smiled.
“He needs someone to hug.”
I couldn’t speak.
I just held her.
At ten that morning, I arrived at Harrison, Vale & Associates.
The office occupied the top floor of a brick building overlooking a quiet town square.
Eleanor Harrison met me in the lobby.
She was in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair and serious blue eyes.
“Mauricio,” she said softly.
I shook her hand.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Come upstairs. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Her conference room contained three thick folders.
One marked ISABELLA MORETTI.
One marked RENATA DELUCA.
And one marked LUCA DELUCA.
Seeing my son’s name on a legal folder nearly broke me.
Eleanor noticed.
“Would you like a moment?”
I shook my head.
“No. I’ve already lost too much time.”
She opened Isabella’s folder.
“Your parents’ involvement appears to have begun before Isabella left you.”
I sat down.
Eleanor slid a document across the table.
It was a copy of a bank transfer.
One hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
Paid from an account associated with my father’s company to a business owned by Isabella’s father.
I frowned.
“What is this?”
“We believe it was connected to a settlement agreement your parents pressured her family to sign.”
I stared at the amount.
“My mother told me Isabella accepted money to leave.”
Eleanor nodded.
“That appears to have been the story they wanted you to believe.”
She showed me another document.
A letter from Isabella’s father.
He had written that the payment was presented as compensation for canceling a business contract, but he later believed it was intended to secure the family’s silence.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Did he know about Luca?”
“Not initially.”
Eleanor opened another folder.
“Now, about the birth.”
She showed me medical records from the hospital.
Isabella had delivered a premature baby boy.
He had survived respiratory complications.
His condition had improved.
There was no record supporting the claim that he died.
I stared at the pages.
“How did my mother convince Isabella he was dead?”
“We don’t yet know exactly who participated or how the false information was conveyed. The hospital’s original records contradict the story.”
I nodded slowly.
Eleanor continued.
“We have also found inconsistencies in the guardianship proceedings.”
“What kind?”
“An address for Isabella that was no longer hers. A statement claiming she could not be located. And a declaration attributed to a social worker whose signature may not be authentic.”
I felt sick.
“So my mother lied to a court?”
“That is one possibility under investigation. We need authenticated records and witness testimony before drawing final legal conclusions.”
I appreciated her careful words.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, someone was interested in facts rather than excuses.
Then she opened Renata’s folder.
“Her adoption raises different issues.”
I leaned forward.
“Is she legally my daughter?”
“As matters stand, yes. You have an adoption decree. Nothing we’ve reviewed changes the fact that you’ve been her parent for four years.”
I exhaled.
“Thank God.”
“But we need to investigate whether Isabella’s consent was properly obtained and whether material information was withheld.”
I looked down.
“Could someone take Renata away from me?”
Eleanor’s expression softened.
“I’m not going to make promises about a legal outcome. But Renata’s stability, your established relationship, and her welfare are central considerations. We will address any challenge carefully.”
I nodded.
“She’s my whole world.”
“I know.”
Then Eleanor reached for a small black flash drive.
“There’s something Isabella wanted you to see.”
My heart began pounding.
“The recording?”
“Yes.”
She connected it to her laptop.
A video appeared.
Isabella sat beside a window.
Her hair was shorter than I remembered.
Her face was thinner.
She wore a pale blue sweater.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Eleven years had passed.
But I would have recognized her anywhere.
Eleanor pressed play.
Isabella looked into the camera.
“Hello, Mauricio.”
My entire body went still.
“If you’re watching this, then I probably didn’t get the chance to tell you everything myself.”
She smiled sadly.
“I don’t know where to begin.”
Her voice trembled.
“I spent so many years being angry. At your parents. At myself. At the world.”
She looked down.
“But never at you.”
I covered my mouth.
“I believed you didn’t want us. Then I learned that someone had been intercepting my letters.”
She wiped a tear.
“When I found out Renata was living with you, I cried for an entire night.”
I leaned forward.
“Because despite everything, our little girl had found her father.”
I began sobbing.
Isabella continued.
“I saw a photograph of you two at the park. You were holding her upside down, and she was laughing.”
I remembered that day.
Renata had been four.
She’d begged me to play airplane until my arms ached.
Isabella smiled through her tears.
“I knew then that you loved her.”
She paused.
“And I knew I had to find Luca.”
Her expression changed.
“I was told our son died. For years, I believed it. But I found records that made me question everything.”
She looked directly into the camera.
“Mauricio, if Luca is alive, please tell him I never stopped being his mother.”
I pressed my hands against my face.
“Tell him I loved him before I ever saw his eyes.”
Her voice broke.
“And tell Renata that she was never unwanted. Not for one second.”
The video ended.
I sat in silence.
Eleanor quietly placed a box of tissues beside me.
I cried until there were no tears left.
Then I looked at her.
“I want to find my son.”
She nodded.
“We have news.”
My heart jumped.
“What news?”
“The school confirmed Luca is still enrolled. Your mother visited last night, but she was not permitted to remove him without completing the required procedures.”
I closed my eyes.
Relief flooded through me.
“Can I see him?”
“Not immediately. But the school has agreed to a meeting with its counselor, subject to verification and appropriate safeguards.”
I nodded.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
I stared at her.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
For the first time since Christmas, I felt something other than grief.
Hope.
The next morning, I drove to Connecticut.
The road was lined with snow-covered trees.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel as I approached Ashcroft Academy.
The campus looked like something from a postcard.
Old stone buildings.
Wide lawns.
A clock tower.
Children walking between dormitories in winter coats.
Somewhere among them was my son.
I parked beside the administration building.
Eleanor met me outside.
“Are you ready?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
She smiled gently.
“That’s understandable.”
Inside, the headmaster, Dr. Samuel Whitaker, greeted us.
He was a tall man with gray hair and a careful expression.
“Mr. DeLuca, thank you for coming.”
I shook his hand.
“Where’s Luca?”
“He’s with our school counselor.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Does he know I’m here?”
Dr. Whitaker nodded.
“He knows a man named Mauricio has come to meet him. We haven’t told him anything that hasn’t been verified.”
I swallowed.
“Good.”
We entered a quiet room with blue chairs and a bookshelf.
A woman introduced herself as Ms. Bennett, the school counselor.
She spoke gently.
“Luca has been asking questions about his family for some time.”
I sat down.
“What kind of questions?”
“Why he doesn’t have photographs of his parents. Why his grandmother rarely visits. Why his aunt always changes the subject when he asks about his childhood.”
My heart broke.
Ms. Bennett continued.
“He’s a thoughtful boy. Very observant.”
I smiled sadly.
“That sounds like Isabella.”
She nodded.
“He also loves drawing.”
I looked up.
“Drawing?”
“Yes. Especially houses.”
I frowned.
“Houses?”
Ms. Bennett smiled.
“He says he wants to design a house where nobody ever has to leave.”
I covered my mouth.
Then she stood.
“Would you like to meet him?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
She opened the door.
A small boy stood in the hallway.
Navy sweater.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
The same crooked tie from the photograph.
He held a folded piece of paper in his hands.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he whispered:
“Are you Mauricio?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
He studied my face.
“You look like the picture.”
I smiled through tears.
“So do you.”
He took one cautious step forward.
“Grandma said you were dead.”
I knelt so we were at eye level.
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“Are you really my dad?”
I looked toward Eleanor.
She gave a small, reassuring nod.
I turned back to Luca.
“There is strong reason to believe I am. We’re making sure we understand everything properly.”
He stared at me.
“Did you know about me?”
Tears filled my eyes.
“No, Luca.”
His lips trembled.
“I didn’t know you were here.”
He looked down at his shoes.
Then he whispered:
“I thought maybe you knew… and just didn’t want me.”
I shook my head.
“No. Never.”
He stood completely still.
I held out my hand.
“I can’t change the years we lost. But I would really like to get to know you.”
Luca looked at my hand.
Then at my face.
And slowly, he stepped forward.
He wrapped his arms around my neck.
I held him gently.
For the first time in ten years, my son was in my arms.
I closed my eyes.
And whispered:
“I found you.”
But as we stood there, Luca said something that made my blood run cold.
“Dad?”
I froze at the word.
“Yes?”
He leaned closer.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
I pulled back.
“What is it?”
He glanced toward the door.
“Grandma told me that if I ever met you, I shouldn’t mention the basement room.”
My heart began pounding.
“What basement room?”
Luca’s face turned pale.
“The one at her house.”
I stared at him.
He whispered:
“The room where she keeps all the letters from my mommy.”
