“Annie—”

“Don’t give me another speech. How many?”

Her voice cracked. “Seven.”

I held up the envelopes. “Then stop calling this a mistake. You had seven separate chances to stop being a coward.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Cruel is a twelve-year-old girl wondering why her father won’t answer her. This is me describing what you did.”

The earliest letter was from Maya at twelve.

Dear Daniel, I don’t know if I’m supposed to call you Dad. Mom says you thought I was gone. I don’t know what you were told. I would like to know what your voice sounds like.

At fifteen, she wrote that she didn’t need money and only wanted to know whether he ever thought about her. At eighteen, she invited him to her graduation and promised she would stop bothering him if he didn’t answer. At twenty-one, she wrote, This is stupid. I don’t know why I keep writing.

Every unanswered letter had taught her the same lie: her father knew she was alive and had chosen to ignore her.

The seventh envelope was from Kealani.

Susan, I know you’re reading these.

I looked up.

Mom covered her face.

Kealani begged her to stop deciding for Daniel and promised that if Dad personally said he wanted nothing to do with Maya, they would leave him alone.

The last sentence was underlined.

But let HIM say it.

“She knew you were intercepting them.”

Mom nodded.

“How?”

“She called once.”

“You spoke to her?”

“Yes.”

I could barely keep my voice steady. “What did you say?”

Mom resisted until I asked again. Finally she admitted, “I told her Daniel had moved on. I said he had a daughter and a family here who needed him.”

“You mean me.”

“Yes.”

I saw something in her face.

“What else did you say?”

She looked away.

“Mom.”

Her answer came quietly. “I said he had a real family now.”

For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.

“You told them I was his real daughter, like Maya was some mistake he should’ve been grateful to forget?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Of course you did. That’s why you said it.”

Mom started crying again and explained that she had intended to tell Dad after the first letter, then kept postponing it. Eventually confessing would also mean admitting she had hidden the truth, so each passing year made honesty harder.

“I kept thinking I’d fix it later.”

I looked at the seven envelopes. “Later is where cowards put things they don’t want to face today.”

Then I remembered Dad in the garage telling me not to judge her too harshly.

“Dad defended you,” I said. “Every time you made him feel guilty for mentioning Hawaii, he defended you. He told me you were scared Hawaii would take him away. Meanwhile you were sitting across from him knowing his daughter was alive there.”

Mom whispered, “I know.”

“Stop saying that. You know what you did. You will never know what it cost him because you made damn sure he never got the chance to find out.”

The following morning, I searched Dad’s email and discovered that the package had not come out of nowhere.

Three months earlier, I had given him an ancestry DNA kit for his birthday. His results produced a 49.8 percent parent-child match with Maya Santos.

Her first message said, I think you’re my father.

Dad replied, I had a daughter named Annie. I was told I lost her in 2002.

Maya answered, You didn’t lose me. I’m here.

They had spent three months talking and verifying everything. Eventually Maya asked, Do you still want to meet me?

Dad replied, More than I know how to explain.

A few days later, he wrote, There is someone else I want you to meet. Her name is Annie.

Maya answered, I know.

Dad asked how she knew my name.

She never answered.

I understood now. She had known about me since Mom’s phone call years earlier.

Then I found an unsent draft from Dad.

Maya, I spent most of my life believing loving you from far away was the only thing left to me. Now I know you were close enough to find, and I don’t know what to do with that anger yet. But none of it belongs to you. I’m coming.

There’s someone I want you to meet. Annie is your sister. She asks too many questions, steals fries off everybody’s plate and has my mother’s temper. I think you’re going to love her.

Below it was a flight confirmation.

Portland to Honolulu.

October 26.

Ten days away.

Dad had finally been going home.

He simply never got the chance to make that flight.

PART 2 — THE SEVEN LETTERS

I called Maya the following morning. When she answered, every introduction I had rehearsed suddenly sounded ridiculous.

“Is this Maya?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Annie Reed.”

There was a long silence. “I know who you are.”

“I’m Daniel’s daughter.”

Her answer was calm. “So am I.”

Then she asked, “Is he there?”

I closed my eyes. “No. Dad passed away two weeks ago.”

She didn’t speak for several seconds. When she finally did, her voice broke. “We talked the night before the accident. He said he was coming.”

“He was. I found the ticket.”

She started crying. “He actually bought it?”

“October twenty-sixth.”

After a while, I told her the package had arrived. When she learned Dad had never opened it, she gave a bitter laugh.

“Of course. I spent twelve years sending things to a man who never answered, and the one time I knew he was waiting for something, it still got there too late.”

I looked at the floral box beside me. “Maya, he didn’t ignore you. I found your letters.”

She went quiet.

“What letters?”

“All seven.”

“Where?”

Mom was sitting across the room.

“My mother had them.”

Another silence.

Then Maya said, “Susan.”

Not your mom.

Susan.

“Put me on speaker.”

Mom shook her head, but I pressed the button anyway.

Maya’s voice filled the room. “Hi, Susan.”

Mom began crying. “Maya, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s convenient.”

“I know what I did was wrong.”

“Which part? The first letter, the seventh, or the phone call where you told my mother Daniel had a ‘real family now’?”

Mom whispered, “I was scared.”

Maya answered immediately. “I was twelve.”

Mom shut her eyes.

“I was twelve years old when I asked my father what his voice sounded like. You opened that letter and put it in a box. Then you watched him grieve me while I grew up thinking he knew I was alive and didn’t give a damn.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that like you’re paying a bill. Sorry doesn’t give him back twenty-four years, and it doesn’t give me back twelve.”

Mom sobbed, but Maya continued.

“He spent years grieving a daughter who was still alive, and I spent years believing a father who was still alive had rejected me. You stole the same relationship from both of us in opposite directions.”

Mom whispered, “I know.”

“No. You know now because Annie opened the box you wanted thrown in the garbage. That’s not the same thing.”

Two days later, I booked a flight to Honolulu for October 26, Dad’s original travel date. Mom asked to come.