“When were you going to tell me, Mom? If the camp hadn’t needed my medical records, what would you have done? Let me go my entire life believing a lie? What about you and … D-Dad…” I trip over the title. “Were you just going to carry on married to someone you don’t love until you die?” My throat grows thick, choking off anything else I could say. My mom’s face crumples.

“Oh, Meg.” She puts down whatever is in her hand and reaches for mine. But that’s all she says. No explanation or reassurances that, of course, of course, she was going to tell me the truth all along. That she was only waiting for the right moment. That she hadn’t planned to lie for so long. I let her hands drop and stand, moving to my closet so I don’t have to look at my mom’s red-rimmed eyes for one more second.

She sniffs and dries her face with the backs of her hands before standing. “I wanted you to have these.” She points to the stack she was carrying. A pile of differently sized envelopes addressed in slanting cursive. “I’ve been collecting them over the years. One for every Christmas, including the last. They’re from your great-grandmother.”

“I don’t have a— Oh,” I say, my heart thudding painfully. “They know about me?”

“Only she does, as far as I know. Andrew’s parents have been gone for decades … even before I met him. He has a brother, but I’ve only ever heard from Elizabeth. After the … after Andrew’s funeral, and after you were born, I sent a card … a copy of the birth announcement. Every year, we exchange Christmas cards.”

I stare at her, stunned. “You exchange Christmas cards.”

She slowly nods, her brown eyes, so different from my blue ones, searching.

“Dear Andrew’s family, Meg’s doing great. Still clueless! Happy holidays. Love, the baby momma.”

My mom winces, and I feel bad about my crassness. But I don’t apologize because it’s not untrue.

“And they didn’t want to know me?”

My mom presses her lips together, shaking her head. “She did. She’s been asking for years. Since the very first letter, even. You’re all they have of Andrew, but I just couldn’t…” She cuts off, dragging a deep breath in through her nose and out past her trembling lips. “I’m sorry, Meg. I needed to compartmentalize. Here. Read them. They’re yours.”

I reach for the envelope on top and trace my fingers along the fine handwriting. The name on the return address is Elizabeth McArthur. “Marquette, Michigan? Is that where you and, um, Andrew, you know…” I trail off, feeling awkward.

My mom pauses at the door. “No, we met at a youth group conference, actually. In Grand Rapids. His band played one of the smaller stages.”