I returned to Pittsburgh and told Anna about Rebecca’s life, including the two sons she was now raising. The next morning, I took the letters to Rebecca and spread them across her kitchen table. I explained what Anna had told me and what the documents revealed, giving her time to read and ask questions. She cried when she reached Carol’s letter. The mother who had raised and loved her had also kept information that belonged to her. Neither fact erased the other, and I could not tell Rebecca how she should feel about them. When she asked whether Anna wanted to meet her, I said yes. Rebecca wanted that meeting too, and I supported her decision.
I still loved Carol. Our marriage contained decades of ordinary mornings, family celebrations, disagreements, and care that remained part of my life. Yet I also had to acknowledge the harm caused by her silence. Ruth had decided what Anna should do, and Carol had decided what I should know. Rebecca had grown up without the opportunity to understand her own beginnings. We could not recover those years, but we could stop making choices on one another’s behalf. From then on, I shared what I knew, admitted what I did not, and let Rebecca and Anna decide how to build their relationship. Carol’s final request had brought us to a painful truth; what happened next would be ours to choose.