She believed the letter I’d sent her son while I was pregnant had been destroyed.
What she didn’t realize was that I’d kept proof of everything.
And when a helicopter landed behind my farmhouse that afternoon, her carefully protected secret began falling apart.
For almost two years, I’d been the subject of endless gossip in Maple Ridge, Vermont.
People called me the waitress with the fatherless child.
Some claimed I’d invented a relationship with a wealthy businessman because I was too embarrassed to admit the truth about my daughter’s father.
Others assumed he’d abandoned me after discovering I was pregnant.
I never tried to defend myself.
Every morning before sunrise, I left my little blue farmhouse and walked to Millie’s Corner Café.
I served coffee to farmers, carried breakfast plates to truck drivers, and smiled politely when customers asked questions that were a little too personal.
Then I returned home to my daughter.
Poppy.
She had soft brown curls, enormous gray eyes, and a laugh that could make even my most exhausting days feel worthwhile.
She was almost two years old.
And every time I looked into her eyes, I saw her father.
Adrian Vale.
My uncle Raymond was the only person who continued questioning my decision to remain silent.
“Elena, a man doesn’t disappear for two years without a reason.”
“He never knew about Poppy,” I insisted.
“You wrote him a letter.”
“Exactly.”
Raymond would stare at me, unable to understand why that answer mattered.
What I hadn’t told him was that I’d spent those two years wondering whether Adrian had ever received the letter at all.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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