It was a letter, dated the day before he died.
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"No," I whispered. My voice sounded hollow. "No, no, no."
I folded the letter and walked downstairs. I found Meredith in the kitchen, helping my brother with homework. Her soft smile dropped when she saw my face.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice sharp with worry.
I held out the letter. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Her eyes dropped to the paper. The color drained out of her cheeks.
"No, no, no."
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"Where did you find that?" she whispered.
"In the photo album. Where you hid it."
Meredith closed her eyes for a moment. She looked like she had been bracing for this exact second for 14 years.
"Go finish your math upstairs, honey," Meredith told my brother. "I'll be up in a minute."
He gathered his books and headed up.
Once he was gone, I cleared my throat and started reading the letter aloud.
"Where did you find that?"
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"My sweet girl, if you're old enough to read this on your own, then you're old enough to know where you came from. I don't ever want your story to live only in my memory. Memories fade. Paper doesn't.
The day you were born was the most beautiful and the hardest day of my life. Your mom — your biological one — was braver than I've ever been. She held you for just a minute.
She kissed your forehead and said, 'She has your eyes.'
I didn't understand then that I would have to be enough for both of us.
