My entire reality felt like it was shifting beneath my feet.
“I spent eighteen years thinking he walked away,” I whispered.
At that moment, my parents walked in through the back door, carrying dinner. They stopped immediately when they saw my face.
“Chloe?” my mother asked. “What’s wrong?”
I turned toward them, still holding the phone.
“He wrote,” I said.
“Who?”
“Jordan.”
They read the messages in silence.
My father’s expression darkened first. “If I had known he was trying to reach you…” he muttered.
“He didn’t leave,” I said, my voice breaking. “He was kept from us.”
