Chapter 6: What His Father Had Done
Caleb drove around for twenty minutes before he trusted himself to go back to Sadie.
He parked eventually on a side street near a park he had walked through a hundred times without noticing.
He sat with the folder on the passenger seat and the engine off and worked through what Diane had told him.
His father, Gerald, had found out about Mara's pregnancy through Diane — she had told him, she admitted that, she said she had thought he deserved to know, she said she had thought he would help.
Instead Gerald had contacted Mara directly.
He had offered her money.
When she refused the money, he had sent a lawyer's letter warning her that any further contact with Caleb would be treated as harassment.
She had been twenty-three years old.
She had been alone.
She had a newborn.
She had stopped writing.
Caleb sat with that for a long time.
His father had been at the party last night.
He had shaken Caleb's hand at the door.
He had looked at Sadie from across the room with an expression Caleb had read as discomfort — the awkwardness of a private man at a public scene.
He understood now that it was not discomfort.
It was recognition.
Gerald had known exactly who Sadie was the moment he saw her.
Caleb drove home, got Sadie settled with her pencils again, and called his father.
Gerald picked up on the second ring.
"I heard there was some trouble at the party last night."
"I need to come see you," Caleb said.
"Today."
A pause.
"I have a lunch."
"Cancel it."
"Caleb—"
"I have Mara's letters, Dad.
All three of them.
And I have a photograph from the day Sadie was born.
And I just left Diane's house, so I know about the lawyer's letter." He let that sit for a moment.
"Cancel your lunch."
The silence on the other end was long enough that Caleb checked his phone screen to confirm the call was still connected.
"Come at noon," Gerald said.
Gerald's house was the house Caleb had grown up in — large, well-kept, slightly cold in the way that houses are cold when they have been cleaned more than they have been lived in.
Gerald met him in the sitting room, already in his chair, already composed.
He had had two hours to prepare.
Caleb had expected that.
"Before you say anything," Gerald began.
"She was twenty-three," Caleb said.
"She was alone.
She had just had a baby.
And you sent her a lawyer's letter."
Gerald's jaw tightened.
"I sent it to protect you."
"From what?
From knowing I had a daughter?"
"From a woman who was going to complicate your entire future.
You had the Chicago posting.
You had opportunities in front of you that most people never—"
"You made that decision for me."
"Someone had to." Gerald's voice was firm.
Not apologetic.
Not even slightly.
"You were twenty-six years old.
You were not thinking clearly when it came to that woman.
You never were."
"So you and Diane decided together.
Without telling me."
Gerald looked at the window.
"Diane was not supposed to keep the letters.
That was not part of the arrangement.
She was supposed to return them."
"But she didn't."
"No.
She didn't." Something shifted in Gerald's expression — the first crack in the composure.
"I didn't know she had kept them."
"It doesn't matter," Caleb said.
"Whether she kept them or burned them, the result was the same.
I never got them.
Mara thought I had rejected her.
She raised Sadie alone.
She passed without ever knowing if I would have come." He leaned forward.
"Would I have come, Dad?
If you had let me read even one of those letters — would I have come?"
Gerald said nothing.
"Answer me."
"I don't know," Gerald said quietly.
"I thought you would have.
That's why I sent the letter."
The room was very still.
"I want you to meet her," Caleb said.
"I want you to look at your granddaughter and tell her what you told me just now.
That someone had to make the decision.
That it was for my future.
I want you to say that to her face."
Gerald's hands moved on the arms of his chair.
"She's five years old."
"She's five years old and she spent five years in foster care while you sat in this house knowing she existed."
"Caleb." Gerald's voice cracked slightly on the second syllable.
Just slightly.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to fix it," Caleb said.
"I don't know yet what that looks like.
But I want you to understand that there is no version of this where you walk away clean.
Not this time."
He stood up.
Gerald stayed in his chair.
At the door, Caleb stopped.
"She drew a picture this morning," he said.
"Two people in a house.
She said it was us." He looked back at his father.
"She's never had that before.
Someone in a house with her.
I'm not going to let anyone take that from her again."
He left before Gerald could respond.
He was halfway to his car when his phone rang.
It was a number he didn't recognize.
He answered anyway.
"Mr.
Caleb Mercer?" A woman's voice.
Professional.
Careful.
"Yes."
"My name is Joanna Reyes.
I'm a social worker with the county child welfare office.
I'm calling regarding a child named Sadie.
I understand she may be in your care."
His hand tightened on the phone.
"She is," he said.
"I'll need to come by today," Joanna said.
"To assess the situation.
I want you to understand this is standard procedure — but I do need to come today."
"Of course," he said.
"Come whenever you need to."
May you like
He hung up and stood in his father's driveway for a moment.
Then he drove home to his daughter.
