There were copies of envelopes, postage receipts, and a formal request from a family-law office asking that any future discussions of parentage take place privately and without my family’s involvement.

I read every page standing at Savannah’s kitchen table.

My signature appeared nowhere.

My replies appeared nowhere.

There were only her words, traveling toward Minneapolis and disappearing.

“Where did you send them?” I asked.

“To your corporate office.

I didn’t trust the house after your mother started handling your private calls.”