Chapter 6: The Missing Pages
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Noah sitting on the living room floor, holding the wooden airplane I had given him.
Then I saw my mother's face.
Then Lauren's letter.
And finally, the document with my signature.
The pieces refused to fit together.
My mother had admitted to intercepting the letter, but she had denied signing the hospital document. She had also insisted that someone else had helped prevent Lauren from contacting me.
Someone from my old office.
Someone I had trusted.
I thought about the people I had worked with seven years earlier.
My former assistant.
The office manager.
The executives who had watched my marriage collapse from a distance.
I couldn't imagine any of them involving themselves in something so personal.
But then I remembered how quickly my life had changed after the divorce.
I had left my job.
Moved into a new apartment.
Changed my phone number.
Cut off contact with anyone who reminded me of Lauren.
I had believed I was making a clean break.
Now I wondered whether someone had been quietly clearing the path for me.
At eight the next morning, my phone rang.
It was my mother.
“I have the letter,” she said.
“Where are you?””
“At home.””
“I'm coming over.””
She hesitated.
“Liam, please don't do anything rash.””
I almost laughed.
“You've spent seven years deciding what I should and shouldn't know. I'm done letting you decide.””
She fell silent.
“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” I said.
I drove through Billings with the radio off.
The roads were mostly empty, the snow piled along the sidewalks from the previous day's storm. Christmas decorations still glowed in a few windows, but the holiday had lost its warmth.
When I arrived at my mother's house, she was waiting by the front door.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Her hair was uncombed, and her eyes were swollen from crying.
She held a thick envelope in both hands.
“Come inside,” she said.
I followed her into the living room.
The house was exactly as it had been during my childhood. The same wooden mantel. The same framed photographs. The same blue armchair where my father used to sit and read the newspaper.
On the mantel stood a photograph of me and Lauren on our wedding day.
I stopped when I saw it.
My mother followed my gaze.
“I never took it down,” she said quietly.
I looked away.
“Give me the letter.””
She handed it over.
The envelope was yellowed, its edges worn.
My name was written across the front in Lauren's handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
For several seconds, I couldn't bring myself to open it.
This was the letter that might have changed everything.
The letter my wife had written while carrying our child.
The letter my mother had kept hidden while I spent seven years believing I had no reason to look back.
I slid a finger beneath the flap.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
I opened it carefully.
The first line was the same one I had read at Lauren's house.
Liam, if you're reading this, it means I finally found a way to tell you that we're going to have a baby.
I forced myself to continue.
The letter contained more than the copy Lauren had shown me.
There were additional paragraphs at the bottom, written in a slightly shakier hand.
I know you're angry with me. I know you think leaving is the only way you can be happy.
But I need you to understand that I never stopped loving you.
I'm not asking you to come back because I'm pregnant.
I'm asking you to give yourself the chance to know your child.
If you decide you can't love me anymore, I will learn to live with that.
But please don't let your anger toward me become the reason our baby grows up without his father.
My vision blurred.
I sat down heavily in the blue armchair.
The final lines were even harder to read.
I've tried calling you. I've left messages. I don't know whether you're receiving them.
Your mother told me she would speak to you.
She promised me she would make sure you knew.
I looked up.
My mother stood by the fireplace, crying silently.
I lowered my eyes to the page again.
I want to believe that if you know about the baby, you'll want to be part of his life.
I want to believe that the man I married is still there somewhere.
Please, Liam.
Don't let this be the last letter I ever write to you.
There was no signature at the bottom.
Only Lauren's name, written in a small, hurried hand.
I folded the letter.
My hands were shaking.
“She trusted you,” I whispered.
My mother covered her mouth.
“She believed you would tell me.””
“I know.””
“You let her believe that.””
“I know.””
“And you let me believe she never wanted me to be part of her life.””
She began to sob.
“I thought I was doing the right thing.””
I stood abruptly.
“Stop saying that!””
My voice echoed through the room.
She flinched.
“You don't get to make something terrible sound noble just because you convinced yourself it was necessary.””
I had never shouted at my mother like that.
I had never wanted to.
But I couldn't keep swallowing the anger.
“You watched me leave my marriage believing there was nothing left to save. You watched me start over. You watched me spend seven years without my son.””
“I thought you'd be happier.””
“That's not your decision!””
She pressed both hands against her chest.
“I know.””
I turned away, trying to steady my breathing.
For years, I had believed that my divorce was a painful but straightforward story.
Two people had stopped understanding each other.
Two people had said things they couldn't take back.
Two people had decided that separation was better than continuing to hurt one another.
Now I was discovering that our final months together had been shaped by conversations I had never heard, messages I had never received, and decisions other people had made in my name.
I turned back toward my mother.
“Who helped you?””
She looked at me in confusion.
“What?””
“You said someone from my office helped keep Lauren's messages from reaching me. Who was it?””
She wiped her cheeks.
“I don't know everything that happened at your office.””
“Then tell me what you do know.””
She sat slowly on the edge of the sofa.
“After Lauren told me she was pregnant, I panicked. I knew you were determined to end the marriage, and I was afraid that a baby would pull you back into something neither of you could handle.””
I stared at her.
“So you decided to hide the pregnancy.””
“I decided not to tell you. I didn't think it would go any further than that.””
“But it did.””
“Yes.””
She looked down at her hands.
“Lauren called me again after she mailed the letter. She said she had sent something to your office and wanted to know whether I had spoken to you.””
I waited.
“I told her I would check.””
“And did you?””
“Yes. I called your office.””
I frowned.
“You called my office?””
“I asked whether there was anything waiting for you from Lauren.””
“Who answered?””
My mother hesitated.
“Your assistant.””
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Which assistant?””
“Melissa.””
The name struck me with unexpected force.
Melissa Grant had worked beside me for nearly four years.
She had organized my schedule, handled correspondence, and helped manage the endless stream of paperwork that came with my position.
She had been one of the first people I told about my divorce.
She had listened patiently while I explained how difficult things had become.
She had even encouraged me to take a few days off after the separation.
I had trusted her.
“Why would Melissa help you?””
My mother shook her head.
“She didn't know the whole story. I told her Lauren was trying to contact you and that I was worried the situation would become worse if you responded while you were angry.””
“That doesn't explain why she'd interfere with my mail.””
“I didn't ask her to destroy anything.””
“Then what did you ask her to do?””
My mother looked away.
“I asked her to hold the letter until I could speak to you.””
I stared at her.
“Did she agree?””
“Yes.””
“And then?””
My mother pressed her fingers against her forehead.
“She told me she would take care of it.””
The room seemed to grow colder.
“Take care of it how?””
“I don't know.””
“You don't know?””
“I thought she meant she'd put it aside until you were ready to talk.””
I laughed bitterly.
“You gave my assistant permission to hide a letter about my unborn child, and you never checked what happened to it?””
My mother began crying again.
“I thought I was preventing a mistake.””
“You prevented me from making my own decision.””
She lowered her head.
For a moment, I felt nothing but exhaustion.
I wanted to hate her.
Part of me did.
But beneath the anger was the memory of the woman who had stayed awake beside my bed when I was sick, who had helped me move into my first apartment, who had cried at my wedding because she believed I had found the person I would spend my life with.
She had loved me.
I believed that.
But love had not stopped her from doing something unforgivable.
“I need you to tell me everything,” I said.
She nodded.
“Everything you remember. Every conversation. Every person you spoke to. Every decision you made.””
“I will.””
“And I need the original letter.””
“This is the original.””
I looked down at the envelope.
“Did you ever open it before you kept it?””
She hesitated.
“Yes.””
The answer made my chest tighten.
“You read it?””
“I had to know what it said.””
I stared at her.
“You read a letter addressed to me, about my own child, and decided I wasn't allowed to see it.””
She covered her face.
I couldn't remain in the room.
I picked up the letter and headed toward the door.
“Liam, wait.””
I stopped but didn't turn around.
“I know you may never forgive me,” she said.
“But please believe me when I tell you I never wanted Noah to suffer.””
I closed my eyes.
“Then you should have told me he existed.””
I left before she could answer.
Outside, the cold air hit my face.
I stood beside my car, holding the letter against my chest.
Melissa.
The name kept repeating in my mind.
She had been there during the final days of my marriage.
She had watched me pack my belongings.
She had helped me organize the paperwork connected to my new apartment.
She had even recommended a lawyer when I needed advice about finalizing the divorce.
At the time, I had been grateful.
Now I wondered whether she had known something I didn't.
I took out my phone and searched for her contact information.
Her number was still there.
I hadn't spoken to her in years, but I knew she had remained in the same industry.
I pressed call.
It rang four times.
Then a familiar voice answered.
“Liam?””
I swallowed.
“Melissa. It's been a long time.””
“It certainly has. Is everything okay?””
I stared at the snow-covered street.
“No,” I said.
“It isn't.””
There was a pause.
“What happened?””
“I need to ask you about something from seven years ago.””
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“What about?””
I looked down at Lauren's letter.
“Do you remember a letter she sent to my office shortly before our divorce was finalized?””
The silence on the other end of the line became so complete that I checked whether the call had disconnected.
Then Melissa spoke.
“I wondered when you would find out.””
My blood ran cold.
“What did you say?””
She exhaled shakily.
“I should have told you a long time ago.””
I gripped the phone.
“Told me what?””
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Your mother wasn't the only person who made sure you never received that letter.””
I closed my eyes.
“Who else was involved?””
Melissa didn't answer immediately.
Then she said something that made my entire understanding of the past collapse.
“Liam, before you accuse anyone, you need to know that the letter wasn't the only thing that disappeared from your office.””
I stood motionless beside my car.
“What else disappeared?””
Her voice trembled.
“A second envelope.””
I could barely speak.
“What was in it?””
“Documents Lauren had sent to prove that she was telling the truth.””
I felt my heart pounding.
“Proof of what?””
Melissa took a shaky breath.
“Proof that someone had already contacted her before you ever signed the divorce papers.””
The street seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
I looked at the letter in my hand.
For seven years, I had believed the end of my marriage was the result of my own choices.
Now I was beginning to understand that someone had been shaping those choices from the shadows.
And if Melissa was telling the truth, then the person responsible had started interfering long before Noah was born.
The worst part was that Melissa sounded terrified.
Not of me.
Not of my mother.
But of the person whose name she was about to tell me.
“Liam,” she whispered, “you need to find out who visited Lauren the week before your divorce.””
I held my breath.
“Who visited her?””
Melissa's answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
“Your lawyer.””
May you like
And suddenly, the divorce papers I had signed seven years ago no longer looked like the end of my marriage.
They looked like the beginning of a lie.
