She pulled out a folded letter.
“He gave me this six months ago.”
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My husband's.
I opened it.
The first sentence read:
“If I don't make it home, give this to my wife.”
I kept reading.
He wrote about the baby.
He wrote about the woman.
And then I reached a sentence that made me stop:
“She isn't my daughter.”
I looked up.
“Then why did you bring her here?”
The woman started crying.
“Because your husband was trying to save her.”