“Are you ready to know?” he asked.
My heart pounded as I took it from him.
I opened the box slowly, bracing myself for a letter or maybe an old keepsake. What I found was far worse than anything I’d imagined.
Inside was a photograph—slightly faded, clearly handled many times. It showed a woman standing beside a teenage girl. The woman was Callie. She looked older, but her expression was familiar from an old college album Greg once showed me. Her eyes looked tired, her mouth set in a half-smile that felt more like regret than happiness.
But the girl beside her…
She was about fifteen or sixteen. She had Greg’s chestnut hair, the same shape to her nose. She looked nothing like Callie—and unmistakably like him.
On the back of the photo, written in the same looping handwriting, was a message:
“This is your daughter. On Christmas Day, from 12 to 2, we’ll be at the café we used to love. You know the one. If you want to meet her, this is your only chance.”
My hands shook as I looked up at Greg. He had sunk onto the couch, his head buried in his hands.
“Greg… what does this mean?” I asked, my voice cracking.