My Stepmom Raised Me After My Dad Died When I Was 6 – Years Later, I Found the Letter He Wrote the Night Before His Death - Page 8

"He was going to write more. A whole stack of letters, he said."

"He was worried about forgetting details about your mom you might want to know one day," Meredith said quietly.

I looked at her. For 14 years, Meredith had held that secret. She had protected me from a version of the truth that would have broken me. She had taken my father's place and then some.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her.

For 14 years, Meredith had held that secret.

"Thank you," I sobbed. "Thank you for protecting me."

"I love you," she whispered into my hair. "You may not be mine biologically, but in my heart, you have always been my little girl."

For the first time in my life, the story didn't feel like a series of broken pieces. Dad didn't die because of me. He died loving me. And she had spent over a decade making sure I never confused the two.

When I finally pulled back, I told Meredith something I should've said years before.

Dad didn't die because of me.

"Thank you for staying," I said. "Thank you for being my mom."

She gave me a watery smile. "You've been mine since the day you handed me that drawing."

My brother's footsteps thudded on the stairs. He poked his head into the kitchen.

"Are you guys okay?"

I reached out and squeezed Meredith's hand. "Yeah. We're okay."

My story was still tragic, but I knew where I belonged now: with the woman who'd loved me and been there for me for as long as she'd known me.

"Thank you for being my mom."

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