My mother had taken away the chance for us to say goodbye.
Thomas opened his box and showed me photographs of Hunter with his father, along with hospital keepsakes, birthday cards, and several envelopes bearing Hunter’s name. Daniel had written letters for his son’s fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth birthdays, knowing he might not live to see them.
Thomas handed Hunter the letter marked seven.
With trembling hands, my son opened it and began to read.
“Buddy, if you’re reading this, I didn’t get enough time with you. I’m sorry for that. Please don’t ever mistake that for me not wanting it. There was nowhere I wanted to be more than home with you.”
Hunter pressed the letter against his chest and looked at me through his tears.
“Mom, Dad wanted me?”
I pulled him into my arms. “Yes, baby. He wanted you.”
That evening, I drove to my mother’s house. I asked her directly whether she had known about Daniel’s illness and whether Thomas had come looking for me.
