Hannah Lawson

I found Laura’s current address by searching the return address on the most recent envelope.

The house was in Brookfield, Wisconsin, less than ninety miles from where I had grown up.

She had lived less than two hours away.

I found her husband’s name first. Mark Lawson owned a small commercial insurance company.

Then I found Hannah.

She was twenty-four and worked as a physical therapy assistant at a rehabilitation clinic. Her profile picture showed her standing beside Laura at a charity 5K.

Laura had one arm around her waist.

I enlarged the picture.

Hannah had my mother’s eyes.

She also had mine.

I closed the laptop.

The next morning, I opened it again.

I typed a message three different times.

The first version sounded angry.

The second sounded unstable.

The third was only four sentences.

My name is Simone Mercer. I believe we have the same mother, Laura Lawson. My father, Daniel Mercer, died last week and left me documents that include photographs of you and letters from Laura. I’m sorry to contact you this way, but I think there are things neither of us has been told.

I attached nothing.

Then I pressed send.

That was my first decision made without my father’s protection.

Hannah replied eleven minutes later.

I think you have the wrong person.

I expected that.

I photographed the Christmas picture and sent it to her.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Where did you get this?

From my father’s belongings.

Who is your mother?

Laura Lawson. Before she married your father, she was Laura Bennett.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared and returned.

My mom doesn’t have another daughter.

I looked at the birthday cards spread across my dining table.

Then I photographed the earliest one.

I made sure Hannah could see the handwriting.

I also sent a picture of the graduation photograph and the tuition check written by my father.

For nearly an hour, there was no response.

At noon, my phone rang from an unfamiliar number.

I answered without speaking.

“Is this Simone?”

Her voice was younger than I expected.

“Yes.”

“My mother said somebody might contact us for money after your father died.”

I stood up so quickly that the chair scraped across the floor.

“She knows I contacted you?”

“I asked her who Daniel Mercer was.”

“What did she say?”

“She said he was someone she dated before she met my dad.”

I looked at my father’s letter.

“Did she tell you she married him?”

Hannah didn’t answer.

“They were married for four years,” I said. “I have their marriage certificate.”

“She said they were never married.”

“I was born during the marriage.”

“Stop.”

Her breathing changed.

I waited.

“My mother told us she put herself through college,” Hannah said. “She said she worked nights and took loans.”

I touched one of the canceled checks.

“My father paid her tuition.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because she told him she might come back.”

The line went quiet.

“Did she?” Hannah asked.

“No.”

“Did she ever see you?”

I looked at the cards again.

Thirteen birthdays reduced to a few lines of blue ink.

“Not after I was three.”

Hannah began crying, but she tried to hide it by clearing her throat.

“I need to go.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t contact my father.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t post anything.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

She ended the call.

I expected her to block me.

Instead, at 6:14 that evening, she sent an address for a coffee shop halfway between our homes.

Below it, she wrote:

Tomorrow. Ten in the morning. Bring everything.

The Other Daughter

Hannah was already sitting in the back booth when I arrived.

She looked like the woman in the Christmas photograph, but without the careful smile.

Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. A paper coffee cup sat untouched between her hands.

She watched me walk toward her.

Neither of us stood to hug.

I placed the plastic bag on the table.

Her eyes went straight to my name in my father’s handwriting.

“That’s it?”

“That’s what he left me.”

“My mother said your father was obsessed with her.”

I sat across from her.

“Maybe he was. That doesn’t explain me.”

Hannah looked away.

I removed the photographs first.

Then the checks.

Then the birthday cards.

She picked up the giraffe card and read the message twice.

“This is her handwriting.”

“I know.”

“She signs my cards exactly like this.”

I slid my father’s letter across the table.

“You can read it.”

She hesitated.

“Why are you showing me all of this?”

“Because she lied to both of us.”

“You want me to hate her.”

“I don’t know you well enough to want anything from you.”

Her mouth tightened.

I pushed the plastic bag toward her.

“But you deserve to know why a stranger has your childhood photographs in her dead father’s kitchen.”

Hannah read the letter.

Halfway through, she placed one hand over her mouth.

When she finished, she didn’t hand it back.

“My parents are having dinner on Sunday,” she said.

“Hannah—”

“My brother is coming. My grandparents too.”

She folded the letter carefully.

“She told us she had no family before my dad.”

I watched her return the cards to the plastic bag one by one.

“What are you saying?”

Hannah finally looked at me.

Her eyes were red, but her voice was steady.

“I’m saying you should come to dinner.”

Sunday Dinner

I almost turned my car around twice on the drive to Laura’s house.

The plastic bag sat on the passenger seat beside me.

Every stoplight gave me another chance to leave.

Instead, I parked across the street five minutes early.

Laura opened the front door before I reached the porch.

For a second, she simply stared.

The color drained from her face.

“Simone?”

She hadn’t seen me in nearly thirty years.

She still knew exactly who I was.

Before I could answer, Hannah stepped into the hallway.

“I invited her.”

Laura looked from Hannah to the plastic bag in my hands.

“Not today,” she whispered.

“Today is exactly the right day,” Hannah replied.

The conversation inside the dining room stopped.

A man in his sixties stood from the table.

He was taller than my father had been.

“Honey, what’s going on?”