Chapter 2 – The Letter

February 17, 1986

My darling Steve,

I know that this letter will not reach you for many years and that, as you sit reading it, you do so knowing that I am dead. I am so sorry never to have seen you again, to hold you, kiss you. I still miss you even after all this time.

I don't know where to begin with what I have to tell you. I am sure that you were hurt when I left without a word. Believe me, it was not my choice.  If it had been, I would have stayed but, back then, my parents made my decisions for me. ALL of them!!

There is no easy, no gentle way to write what I am about to so I will just say it – you are a father.  Remember our night on the sand? It was more life affirming than either of us guessed it would be. My Mom caught me throwing up a few times and she took me to the doctor in case I was ill. My Mom was the one that was ill when the doctor told her I was pregnant! Who knew you could get pregnant from doing it for the first time? We certainly didn't. We were too much in love to think about anything as mundane as consequences weren't we?

Anyway, I didn't tell them it was you because you had enough to deal with in losing your Mom. I told them it was a guy I met at a dance. I don't know what freaked them out more, the fact that their little girl was pregnant or that she didn't know the name of the father. My parents decided that they couldn't stand the disgrace and sent me away to my Aunts'. That is why I left so suddenly. I couldn't contact you and tell you why because I knew that you would have owned up and we would both have been in deep.

My aunt was really kind to me, so much so that I stayed with her after the baby was born, but she agreed with my parents that I was too young to look after a child and they insisted that I had him adopted.

Our son was born on Feb 17, 1976 a beautiful healthy son. I named him Steve after you; I don't know what his adoptive parents called him. They let me have one hug and take a couple of photos, then they took him away - ten years ago today. I only have to shut my eyes and I am back in that room, cuddling our son for the first and only time.

I can't believe so much time has passed, it only seems like yesterday.

Oh Steve, how it hurt when the door closed behind the woman who was dealing with the adoption. I started to cry and I don't think I stopped for a week. There's a hole inside of me that I don't think will ever be filled.

I was allowed to write a letter to Steve that the agency gave to his adoptive parents for them to pass onto him when they felt he was old enough. The agency assured me that they would do that and I have to hold onto that thought.

I don't know how old you are as you read this letter. Whether you have a family of your own (I hope so) or what you have done with your life. I do know one thing and that is Steve deserves to know who his father is.

I am putting one of my two photos of him in with this letter and will write the address of the adoption agency on the back. I hope that they will be able to help you, if you choose to look for Steve.

I will always love you

Amy.

Whilst Steve had been reading, Mark had been moving about the kitchen making some more toast for the pair of them. He sat back down as Steve came to end of Amy's letter, the utter stillness of his son alerting him to the fact that something was wrong.

"Steve?" he spoke softly, concern evident in his voice.

Wordlessly Steve handed over the letter and picked up the pink envelope again and looked inside. Tucked into a corner was a small, black and white, photograph of a young woman holding a baby. A small sound of distress escaped Steve and Mark looked up from his reading.

"Steve?" again that one syllable spoke volumes.

"It's my son," Steve managed to utter, a tear escaping from each eye and running down each side of his face, almost racing each other to see which would reach his chin first.

Rising, Mark moved to stand behind his son and looked over his shoulder at a photograph of the grandchild he had always wanted and had begun to despair that he would ever see.  A small gasp of recognition escaped him and Steve looked up.

"He looks exactly like you did as a baby," Mark said in a stunned whisper.

"I have a son," Steve whispered again, still with a tone of utter disbelief in his voice.

Marks' brain suddenly did the math and he said, "1976? Steve, you were only seventeen!"

A hint of irritation crossed Steve's mind at the irrelevance of the comment at such a moment and then he relaxed, once a parent always a parent he thought. A spasm of pain crossed his face at the irony in his last thought. He had been a parent for nearly twenty four years and he hadn't known anything about it.

Realising that he had been slightly tactless Marks' tone, when he spoke again, was gentler.

"What happened?" he asked.