We met two months later and got married soon. I'd always thought James was premature when he was born just seven months after our wedding. Turns out he was born right on time, just not with the father I thought.
"You were so good to me," Martha whispered. "So kind and gentle. You never questioned anything, just accepted James as your own. I thought Daniel was dead. I thought that part of my life was over forever."
A close-up shot of an older woman's face | Source: Pexels
A close-up shot of an older woman's face | Source: Pexels
I thought that was the end of the story. Painful as hell, but something I could maybe understand. A young woman, scared and alone, was choosing security over uncertainty. It happened to a lot of girls back then.
But then, I returned to the attic and read the rest of those letters.
Daniel hadn't died in Vietnam. He'd been captured, spent three years as a prisoner of war, and was finally released in 1972. The later letters told a story that made my hands shake all over again.
A close-up shot of a person's handwriting | Source: Pexels
A close-up shot of a person's handwriting | Source: Pexels
In 1974, he wrote, "My dearest Martha, I've found you. I've seen you with your husband, seen how happy you look with your new family. I won't destroy what you've built. But you should know that I will always love you, and I will always watch over our son James from a distance."
He'd been living in the same town as us. For decades. A ghost hovering at the edges of our lives, watching his son grow up from the shadows.
The next morning, I had to know more. I found Daniel's address in one of the newer letters and drove across town to a small house I'd probably passed a thousand times without thinking twice about it.
Plants around a window | Source: Pexels
Plants around a window | Source: Pexels
The place was empty with its windows boarded up. So, I knocked on the neighbor's door, and an elderly woman answered.
"You looking for Dan?" she asked, studying my face carefully.
"Yes, ma'am. I am."
She shook her head sadly. "Oh, honey, Dan passed away just three days ago. Quiet funeral, hardly anyone there. He was a good man, but he kept to himself mostly. Heard he was a veteran."
My legs went weak. Three days ago. Right around the time I'd started hearing those scratching sounds in the attic.
A coffin | Source: Pexels
A coffin | Source: Pexels
When I got home, I called Martha at the facility and told her what I'd learned. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
"Martha? You still there?"
"He visited me," she whispered finally. "Three weeks ago, right before my accident. He called and said he was sick, that he didn't have much time left. We met at the diner downtown."
My heart clenched. "Martha, how long? How long have you been seeing him?"
"Not seeing him," she said quickly. "Not like that. Just... he'd call sometimes over the years. Maybe once or twice a year. He wanted to know how James was doing in school, if he was happy, and if he was healthy. I swear to you, Gerry, it was never romantic. It was just about James."
A woman talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
A woman talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
"What did he want when he came to see you three weeks ago?"
Her voice got so quiet I could barely hear her. "He brought something for James. Something he wanted his son to have after he was gone. I hid it in the attic with the letters."
I went back up to that dusty room one more time. Under all those letters, wrapped carefully in an old cloth, I found a Purple Heart medal, a leather-bound diary, and a faded photograph.
Old photographs | Source: Pexels
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