"Hi," Hannah said. "It is me. I got your letters. All of them. I am sorry I did not answer sooner."
"You do not need to apologize," Victoria said quickly. "Are you all right?"
"I am getting there," Hannah said. "Listen. I booked a train to Portland on Saturday. I am going to see Sarah. And I want you to come with me. Not to fight. Not to fix everything in one day. Just to come. Will you come?"
After a long silence, Victoria's voice came back, trembling and full of light. "Yes. Oh, Hannah. Yes. I will be there, and I will not let you down."
Chapter 16: A Letter Never Sent
Sarah stood at the kitchen window and watched the street. The coffee in her mug had gone cold. She had wiped the counter three times already. Tom sat at the table, watching her, patient and worried.
"Sarah, sit down," Tom said. "You are wearing a hole in the floor."
"I cannot sit," Sarah said. "What if she changes her mind on the train?"
"Then we will meet her on the porch," Tom said. "She said she was coming."
Sarah touched the envelope in her apron pocket. The paper was yellowed at the edges, soft from years in the box. She had written it in 2003, when Hannah was two and asleep in the next room. She had never sent it.
"Do you think she will want it?" Sarah asked. "It is twenty-three years old."
"It might," Tom said. "It is the truest thing you ever wrote."
A car door closed outside. Sarah turned. Through the window she saw Hannah on the walk, a small bag over her shoulder.
"She is here," Sarah whispered.
Sarah opened the front door before Hannah could knock. For a moment neither of them spoke. Hannah looked tired.
"Hi, Mom," Hannah said.
"Hi, honey," Sarah said. "Come in. Please come in."
Hannah stepped inside and set her bag down. "Hi, Dad," she said.
"Hey, kiddo," Tom said. "It is good to see you."
"It is good to see you too," Hannah said. "I missed you both. I just needed time."
"You do not need a reason to come back," Sarah said. "This is your home."
Hannah nodded, and her eyes filled. "I read your letter. The one in the package. And I read Victoria's letters. I am still angry, Mom. I need you to know that. But I am tired of being angry from far away."
"I am glad you came," Sarah said. "I have something for you. I should have given it to you the day I wrote it."
Sarah took the envelope from her apron pocket and held it out. The ink had faded, but the words were still clear. To the mother of the baby in the chapel.
Hannah stared at it. "What is this?"
"The letter I never sent," Sarah said. "I wrote it in 2003. I wrote it to Victoria, only I did not know her name then. I never sent it because I was afraid of prison, and I was afraid of losing you. It belongs to you now. Will you read it? Please. Out loud, so I can hear it too."
Hannah took the envelope and sat down at the kitchen table. She opened it slowly, unfolded the pages, and began to read.
"Dear mother of the baby in the chapel," Hannah read. "My name is Sarah Brooks. I am a nurse at St. Mary's Hospital. I found your daughter in the chapel on the night she disappeared. I am writing to tell you that she is alive. She is safe. She is loved. I am so sorry. I am sorry for every day you have spent without her. Two weeks before that night, my own baby daughter died. Her name was Emma. She was stillborn, and I held her and she never took one breath. On the night I found your daughter, I went to the chapel to pray. She was there on a bench, wrapped in a blanket, with your note tucked under it. I picked her up and I called the front desk for help, and no one answered. I held her, and she was warm, and she opened her eyes and looked at me, and my arms had been empty for two weeks. I took her home. I told myself she was safer with me. That was not my choice to make. I have raised her as my own, and I have loved her with all my heart, but she was never mine to keep. She is loved every single day. I am begging you to forgive me. I know I took years from you that I can never give back. But your baby did not disappear into the dark. She was held. She was safe. I am sorry. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. Sarah Brooks."
Hannah set the pages down. Her hands were shaking. Sarah was crying, and Tom put his arm around her shoulders.
"You wrote that in 2003," Hannah said softly.
"I did," Sarah said. "You were two. I sat at this table after you were asleep and I wrote it. I meant every word. Then I let fear win. I folded it up and I hid it."
"You never knew her name," Hannah said.
"No," Sarah said. "I only knew that somewhere there was a mother who had gone to sleep in a waiting room and woken up to empty arms. I thought about her every birthday. Every joy was borrowed."
Hannah stood up. She walked around the table and stood in front of Sarah, and Sarah braced herself, because she thought Hannah was going to leave again. Instead Hannah wrapped her arms around Sarah and held on tight.
Sarah froze. Then she folded Hannah into her arms and held her daughter as if she were still a baby in a blanket in a chapel at two in the morning. She buried her face in Hannah's hair and did not let go.
"I missed you," Hannah whispered. "I missed you so much, Mom."
"I missed you too," Sarah said. "Every day. Every single day."
After a long time, Hannah pulled back to look at Sarah. "I invited Victoria to come to Portland," Hannah said. "She said yes. I want you two to meet. Not to fight. Just to meet."
Sarah wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her heart was pounding, and she thought of the woman in Seattle who had waited twenty-five years for an answer.
"Will you bring her?" Sarah said. "I want to meet her. I want to say I'm sorry to her face."
Chapter 17: The Meeting
Victoria stood on the porch of the house on Alder Street and tried to steady her hands. The train from Seattle had been quiet. Hannah was inside already. Victoria pressed the bell before she could change her mind.
Sarah opened the door. For a moment the two women only looked at each other. Victoria had imagined this meeting for twenty-five years. Now she felt strangely calm.