Chapter 12 — The Birthday Card Celia Left Behind
Yvette sat on the hotel bed.
Dorian sat beside her.
Amelie slept again in the crib.
Yvette opened the card.
Inside, Celia had written:
My darling Yvette,
If you opened this, then somehow my father has become real to you instead of just a missing part of my past.
Yvette swallowed.
The note continued.
I want you to understand two things at the same time.
Your grandfather loved us.
Your grandfather also hurt me by repeatedly believing his fear mattered more than my boundaries.
Both are true.
Yvette looked toward Dorian.
He nodded for her to continue.
I did not keep you from him because he was evil.
I kept distance because I could not raise you while fighting constantly for the right to make my own decisions.
I needed him to understand that being a grandfather did not make him another parent.
Then:
For years I was too angry to imagine speaking to him again.
Later I became less angry, but distance had become the shape of our lives.
Yvette stopped.
That sentence hurt.
Not a dramatic permanent hatred.
Just time hardening a rupture.
She continued.
I sent him two photographs of you.
I never told anyone.
I wanted him to know you were safe.
Yvette closed her eyes.
Conrad had told the truth.
I considered contacting him after Adrian died.
I did not.
I was grieving, frightened, and still unsure whether opening that door would bring comfort or control back into our lives.
That was my decision to make then.
Then came the line Yvette would remember for the rest of her life:
If you meet him as an adult, it will be your decision to make then.
Yvette began crying.
The final paragraph read:
Do not use my old boundary as a prison for yourself.
But do not ignore why I needed it either.
Let him show you who he is now.
Not who he wishes I remembered.
Not who you wish a grandfather might be.
Who he actually is.
Then choose.
Love always, Mom.
Yvette pressed the card against her chest.
Dorian put his arm around her.
“What do you want?”
Yvette looked toward the black-and-white photograph.
“I don’t know yet.”
Then she looked at Amelie.
“But I know what I don’t want.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to make Mom’s choice automatically become mine.”
She picked up her phone.
Conrad’s number was on the paper beside her.
She did not call that night.
She waited three days.
Then sent one message:
I have more questions. Coffee next Saturday. Public place. Just you and me.
Conrad’s reply came five minutes later.
Yes. Thank you. I will follow your lead.
That first meeting would determine whether the man in the photograph remained only part of Yvette’s history…
or slowly became part of her present.