Sadie shook her head. “We’re okay. It’s a small wedding, less than a hundred guests, and Josh and I want to pay for it ourselves. But thanks for offering.”

“Just let me know,” I said, finally flagging down the waitress and ordering another beer.

When it arrived, something about the amber ale’s rich auburn color reminded me of April Sawyer’s hair. While we waited for our food, I found myself glancing at the door every time it opened, wondering if by chance she’d walk in and what I’d do if she did.

I couldn’t get her out of my head.

On the drive back to my hotel, I wondered if she was married. If she had a family. If she was happy.

While I undressed and turned back the covers, I wondered if she ever thought about me.

As I lay on my back in the middle of the king-sized bed, I recalled little things about her I’d liked—the sound of her laugh, the dimples when she smiled, the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the surprisingly loud way she could whistle with her fingers, the smell of this lotion she used to wear that reminded me of birthday cake.

Was it that scent that had finally gotten the better of me that night? Was it the long red hair? The way she’d listened to me ramble on about my major league dreams while we sat in the back of my truck under the stars? Was it the fact that I was leaving the next day, and we had to say goodbye?

Or was I just a typical eighteen-year-old kid, fueled by a couple of beers and a fuck ton of testosterone?

Even now, I wasn’t sure.

What I’d told my sister and Josh was true—I didn’t know the first fucking thing about babies.

But I knew that eighteen years ago, April Sawyer had given birth to one.

And it had been mine.

Two

April

“I did it. I wrote the letter.”

Without even a hello, I dropped breathlessly onto the couch in my therapist’s office and made the announcement.

Prisha Dar, LMSW, smiled at me and lowered herself into her chair. Crossing her legs, she nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”

“I did what you said. I went home and listed all the reasons I want to meet my birth son after eighteen years, and all the reasons I don’t.”

“And what did your lists tell you?”

“Well, the list of reasons for was much longer. It included things like wanting to see what he looks like, wanting to know he’s happy, wanting to hear about his college plans.” I paused, picturing the lists I’d written out on two separate notebook pages. “It also included things like wanting confirmation once and for all that I made the right decision for him all those years ago . . . and wanting closure on that chapter of my life.”

She nodded. “And the list against?”

“It only had one word on it,” I admitted. “Fear.”

Prisha smiled sympathetically.

“And I’m still afraid. But I’m tired of letting that fear keep me from moving on. I always thought keeping my secret and burying all the painful feelings I associated with it—the guilt and the shame and the grief—was the best way to get over it. But maybe I was wrong.”

“We often try to protect ourselves that way,” Prisha said. “But it doesn’t work, does it? Those feelings become anchors that tether us silently to the very pain we need to work through and let go. And even if you make the decision not to meet your birth son, which is perfectly okay, you still need to address those feelings. When you first came in here, I could tell you weren’t quite ready.” Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “But now I think you are.”

I nodded. “I think so too. And last night, I wrote the letter to his parents. I even sealed it and addressed it and stamped it, but . . .” Ashamed, I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out an envelope. “This morning, I couldn’t bring myself to put it in the mailbox.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, April. You’ve come a long way in just a few months.”

My throat caught, and I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

She set her iPad aside and crossed her arms. “Do you remember what you told me the first time you came in? The reason why you were seeking therapy?”

I thought for a moment, looking out the window of her office at a magnolia tree bursting with spring blooms. Back in February, when I’d first sat on this couch, the tree had been stark and barren, its branches lined with snow. “I wanted to be happier. I wanted to feel less alone.”

“You wanted to be in a relationship. It’s okay to say it out loud—we all want to feel loved and accepted.”

I wondered what that would be like—to feel loved and accepted, deep dark secrets and all. I only knew what it looked like from the outside. Over the last year I’d watched all four of my sisters find their soul mates. “Yes. I would like that.”

“But we have to start by loving and accepting ourselves. When we began, you were frustrated because you’d thought hiring someone at work was going to help. You thought less time on the job and more down time would help. You thought taking a vacation would help.”

“Right. And then I did all those things—hired a second event planner, joined a gym, took a beach vacation, and I still felt . . .” I threw up my hands and looked at her again. “Stuck in this lonely, unhappy place. Like I’m on an island by myself watching everyone else on the mainland being happy.”

Prisha regarded me silently for a moment. “April, it was clear to me very quickly that you weren’t going to become happier just by working less. Once we explored your past, I felt certain that the isolation you were experiencing, and that sense of feeling stuck, was not because of your job, but because of this secret you’ve kept for eighteen years—this unfinished chapter in your life. You never wanted to tell anyone about the baby you gave up because you were scared they’d judge you the way you judge yourself, so you never let anyone get close to you. It was a protective measure.”

I nodded, the lump forming in my throat again.

“Putting that letter in the mailbox—when you’re ready—is a step toward writing the end of that chapter, but talking out loud about what you went through will be just as important. I want to encourage you to open up about this to someone in your life that you trust. You’ve said only your mother and grandmother knew about the baby, is that correct?”

“And my older sister, Sylvia. But I have three more sisters I never told.”

She met my eyes. “Is there one of them you can trust?”

“I trust all of them,” I said honestly.

“Good. Your homework is to tell one—or all—of them about this time in your life. As scared as you are, as uncomfortable as it makes you, I believe it’s necessary for you to heal. Once that’s done, see how you feel about sending that letter.”

I nodded, knowing she was right. If I really wanted to get unstuck, I’d have to be brave.

“There’s something else,” I blurted.

“Oh?”

I looked down at the letter in my hands. “The baby’s father—there’s a good chance I might see him for the first time since . . . since then. His sister is getting married a week from tonight, and I’m the wedding planner.”