In the following hour I nearly called six times.

Instead I wrote a message: I am sorry.

I was speaking from pain, but that doesn’t excuse what I said.

I love you, and I will listen when you are ready.

He replied the next morning.

We met for coffee and talked for an hour about what it meant to share a history without owning each other’s feelings.

He admitted that reading the files had stirred up old fears about being unwanted.

I admitted that every delay made me feel eighteen again, powerless beneath my father’s rules.