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Sierra's POV

The second photo changed everything.

We couldn't just wait anymore. We had to do something. Louis spent hours on the phone with lawyers and private investigators. I spent hours staring at the photos, trying to see something we missed.

The woman in the pictures. Louis's birth mother. She had my eyes. My dark hair. My smile. It was like looking at a ghost version of myself from thirty years ago.

"Is it weird?" I asked Louis one night. We were in bed, both too wired to sleep. "That she looks like me?"

He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, "Maybe it's not weird. Maybe it's... I don't know. Fate? Something?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

"I believe in us." He turned on his side to look at me. "I believe that somehow, through all the mess, we found each other. And we stayed. That's enough for me."

I wanted to believe that too. But the photos made everything feel complicated.

The next morning, Louis's investigator called with news. They'd traced the postmark on both letters to a small town about two hours away. A place called Oakwood. Population like three thousand people.

"Why there?" I asked.

"No idea. But someone from that area mailed those letters. Someone who wanted you to find them."

We looked at each other. The same thought in both our minds.

"Let's go," I said.

"Now?"

"Now. Katie's at school until three. We have six hours. Let's go see what's in Oakwood."

Louis didn't argue. He never argues when I get that look in my eye. He just grabs his keys and follows.

The drive was pretty. Green hills. Farms. Cows standing around like they owned the place. We didn't talk much. Just held hands over the console and watched the world go by.

Oakwood was tiny. One main street with a few shops. A diner. A library. A post office. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone.

We went to the post office first. Showed the photos to the lady at the counter. An older woman with big glasses and curly grey hair.

"These came from here," Louis said. "Mailed in the last few weeks. Do you recognize the woman?"

She looked at the photos for a long time. Then she looked at us. Then back at the photos.

"That's Margaret," she said slowly. "Margaret Dale. She's lived here forever. Keeps to herself mostly. But I see her at church sometimes."

My heart jumped. Margaret. A name. A real name.

"Do you know where she lives?" I asked.

The lady hesitated. "I don't know if I should be giving out that information..."

Louis pulled out his wallet. Not for money. For a business card. His real one, with the company name and everything.

"I'm her son," he said quietly. "I was adopted as a baby. I think she's been trying to reach me."

The lady's eyes went wide. "Oh my goodness. Margaret's son? She never said she had a son."

"It was a closed adoption. She gave me up. I never knew her."

She looked at Louis's face. At the photos. Back at his face.

"You have her eyes," she whispered. "Exactly her eyes."

She gave us the address. A small house on the edge of town. We drove there in a kind of daze.

The house was pale blue with white shutters. A little overgrown garden. A rusty mailbox. It looked sad. Lonely.

We sat in the car for a minute, just looking at it.

"What do we say?" I asked.

"I don't know. Hello? I'm the son you gave away thirty-something years ago?"

"That's a start."

He laughed. A nervous, shaky laugh. I'd never seen Louis nervous like this. Not in court. Not during the trial. Not even facing Lyle in our bedroom. But this tiny blue house had him shaking.

"Together," I said, squeezing his hand.

"Together," he echoed.

We walked up the cracked path. Louis knocked on the door.

Footsteps inside. Slow. Careful. The door opened.

A woman stood there. Older than the photos. Grey hair now, not dark. Wrinkles around her eyes. But those eyes. Those same eyes that looked at me from the photos. From Louis's face every day.

She stared at Louis. He stared at her.

"You came," she whispered. Her voice was soft. Shaky. "I sent the photos hoping... but I never thought you'd actually..."

"You sent them?" Louis asked. "The photos?"

"I didn't know how else to reach you. I didn't have your number. I couldn't just show up. I thought... maybe if you saw me... if you knew I was real..."

She started crying. Silent tears running down her cheeks.

Louis stood frozen. I'd never seen him like this. Completely lost.

I stepped forward. "I'm Sierra. His wife. Can we come in?"

She nodded, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I'm a mess. Come in, please."

The inside of the house was small but clean. Old furniture. Crocheted blankets. Photos on the walls. Photos of a woman alone. No family pictures. No husband. Just her, at different ages.

"Sit, please." She gestured to the couch. "Can I get you tea? Water?"

"We're fine," Louis said. He sat down hard, like his legs gave out. I sat next to him, close.

Margaret sat across from us in a worn armchair. She twisted her hands in her lap.

"You look like him," she said softly, looking at Louis. "Your father. You have his jaw. His nose."

"Who was he?" Louis asked. His voice was rough.

"A good man. A kind man. We were young. Too young. We were going to get married, but then..." She stopped. Swallowed. "He died. Before you were born. Car accident. Drunk driver. He was only twenty."

Louis's hand found mine under his thigh. Squeezed tight.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"It was a long time ago." She looked at Louis. "I was alone. Sixteen years old. Pregnant. No family. No money. I couldn't keep you. I couldn't give you the life you deserved."

"You gave me up," Louis said. Not angry. Just stating a fact.

"I had to. It nearly killed me. But I had to." Tears again. "I thought about you every single day. Every birthday. Every Christmas. Wondering if you were happy. If you were loved."

"I was," Louis said quietly. "My parents... they weren't perfect. But they loved me. I had a good life."

"I'm so glad." She was crying harder now. "That's all I ever wanted. For you to have a good life."

The room was quiet except for her crying. I didn't know what to say. Louis didn't either.

"Why now?" he finally asked. "Why send the photos now, after all these years?"

She took a shaky breath. "I'm sick. Really sick. Cancer. The doctors say I have maybe six months. A year if I'm lucky." She looked at him with those familiar eyes. "I didn't want to die without you knowing. Without telling you I never stopped loving you. That giving you up was the hardest thing I ever did."

Louis's face crumbled. Just for a second. Then he pulled it back together. But I saw it. The crack in his armor.

"I didn't know," he said. "I never knew anything about you."

"I know. That was the deal. The agency said it was best. A clean break. But I kept photos. I wrote you letters I never sent. I have a box full of them."

She stood up slowly, like it hurt to move. Walked to a cabinet and pulled out a shoebox. Old and worn. She handed it to Louis.

He opened it. Inside were dozens of letters. All addressed to him. All unopened.

"Every year on your birthday," she said. "I wrote you a letter. Told you what I was doing. Where I was living. If I got a new job. If I saw a pretty sunset. Just... little things. Things I wished I could share with you."

Louis's hands were shaking as he looked through the box. I saw dates. 1990. 1995. 2000. 2010. Last year. Every single year.

"Why didn't you send them?" I asked softly.

"I was scared. Scared you'd hate me. Scared you'd throw them away. Scared your parents would be upset. I just... kept them. A little piece of you that was mine."

Louis looked up at her. His eyes were wet. I'd seen Louis cry maybe three times in our whole marriage. This was number four.

"I don't hate you," he said. "I could never hate you."

Margaret made a sound. A broken, happy sound. She covered her mouth with her hands.

We stayed for three hours. She showed us more photos. Of his father. Of them together as teenagers, so young and in love. Of her through the years, always alone.

Louis told her about his life. About his work. About Katie. He showed her pictures on his phone. Margaret cried again when she saw Katie.

"She's beautiful," she whispered. "She has your smile."

"She has her mother's everything," Louis said, looking at me.

"You're lucky," Margaret said to me. "He's a good man. I can tell."

"He is," I said. "The best."

When it was time to go, we stood at the door. Awkward. What do you say to the mother you just met who's dying?

"Can we come back?" Louis asked. "I'd like... I'd like to know you. Even if it's just for a little while."

Margaret's face lit up. Really lit up, like someone turned on a light inside her.

"You want to come back?"

"Yes. If you want."

"I want. More than anything."

We hugged. All three of us in a awkward huddle. Margaret was small and frail in my arms. She smelled like lavender and old books.

On the drive home, Louis was quiet. I let him be. He needed to think.

Finally, about halfway home, he spoke.

"I have a mother," he said. "A real one. Who loved me. Who never stopped loving me."

"You always had a mother. You just didn't know her."

"I didn't think... I never imagined..." He shook his head. "All those letters. Every year. She never forgot me."

"She couldn't forget you. You're her son."

He pulled the car over. Just stopped on the side of the road. And cried. Really cried. Huge, ugly sobs that shook his whole body.

I held him. Right there in the car with trucks going past. I held him and let him cry.

After a while, he pulled himself together. Wiped his face on his sleeve.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't ever apologize for that."

"I just... I didn't know I needed this. I didn't know I was missing anything."

"Now you know."

He looked at me. His eyes were red. His nose was running. He was a mess. And I loved him more than ever.

"We have six months," he said. "Maybe a year. To know her. To let Katie know her."

"Then we make the most of it."

"Yeah." He nodded. "We make the most of it."

We drove home. The sun was setting. The sky was pink and orange. It felt like a sign. Like the world was saying *it's okay. you found each other. that's what matters.*

Katie was home when we got there. She took one look at Louis's face and knew something was up.

"Dad? What happened? You look weird."

Louis sat her down and told her everything. About the photos. About the letters. About Margaret. About his real mother.

Katie listened with her mouth open. When he finished, she was quiet for a minute.

"So I have another grandma?"

"You have another grandma."

"Is she nice?"

"She seems really nice."

"Does she like cookies? Because I can make cookies."

Louis laughed. The first real laugh since we got the first photo.

"I'm sure she'd love cookies."

"Then let's go see her! Tomorrow! We can bring cookies!"

I put my hand on her shoulder. "Slow down, baby. We'll go see her soon. But she's sick. Really sick. We have to be careful."

"Sick how?"

"Cancer."

Katie's face fell. "Is she going to die?"

Louis pulled her into a hug. "Maybe. But not right now. Right now, she's alive. And she wants to know us. So we're going to spend as much time with her as we can."

Katie nodded against his chest. "Okay. I can do that. I'm good at spending time with people."

I watched them. My husband and my daughter. The two best things in my life. And now there was a new person. A grandmother. A missing piece.

The next weekend, we went back to Oakwood. All three of us. Katie brought cookies she made herself. They were a little burnt on the bottom, but she was so proud.

Margaret opened the door and saw Katie. Her face did that thing again. The light-up thing.

"You must be Katie," she said softly.

"Hi, Grandma Margaret!" Katie held out the cookies. "I made these for you. They're a little burnt but they still taste good."

Margaret laughed. A real laugh. "They look perfect. Thank you, sweetheart."

We spent the afternoon together. Katie told Margaret about school and horses and her friend Chloe. Margaret listened like every word was precious. She showed Katie old photos. Told her stories about when she was young.

At one point, I found Louis in the kitchen, just watching them.

"She's good with her," he said quietly.

"Katie's good with everyone."

"I meant Margaret. She's good with Katie."

"She's a grandmother. It's in the blood."

He nodded. Swallowed hard.

"I wish we'd had more time."

"Then we use the time we have."

We visited every weekend after that. Sometimes just Louis and Katie. Sometimes all of us. Margaret got weaker as the weeks passed, but she never complained. She just lit up every time we walked through the door.

Katie started calling her "Grandma M." She made her cards and drawings. She told her about her day. She sat with her and watched old movies.

One afternoon, Margaret pulled me aside. She looked tired but peaceful.

"I want to thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For bringing him back to me. For sharing your family. For being so kind to a stranger."

"You're not a stranger. You're family."

She smiled. "I always hoped he'd find someone like you. Someone strong. Someone who loves him."

"He's easy to love."

"He's easy because of you. I can see it. The way he looks at you. The way he is with Katie. You made him that way."

"I don't know about that."

"I do." She squeezed my hand. Her fingers were thin, bones under papery skin. "Thank you, Sierra. For everything."

I hugged her gently. "Thank you for sending those photos. For giving him the chance to know you."

She nodded against my shoulder. "I was so scared. Scared he'd hate me. Scared he wouldn't come."

"But he came."

"He came." She pulled back and smiled. "My boy came home."

---

Three months later, Margaret passed away.

She went in her sleep, peaceful, in her little blue house. The doctor said it was quick. No pain.

Louis got the call at 6 in the morning. I woke up to him sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in his hand, staring at nothing.

"Louis?"

"She's gone." His voice was flat. Empty.

"Oh, honey." I sat up and wrapped my arms around him from behind. "I'm so sorry."

"I only had three months."

"But you had them. You had three months of knowing her. Of her knowing you. Of Katie knowing her grandmother."

He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "She wrote me a letter. Every year. For thirty-five years. And I only got to read a few of them."

I held him tighter. "You can read the rest now. Take your time. She'd want that."

He nodded. We sat like that until the sun came up.

The funeral was small. Just us and a few people from Oakwood who knew Margaret. The lady from the post office came. A few neighbors. The pastor from her church.

Katie stood between us, holding our hands. She cried a little, but she was brave. She'd made a drawing for Grandma M to take with her to heaven.

"She's not really gone," Katie said afterward, as we stood by the grave. "She's in our hearts. Right?"

"Right, baby," I said. "Right in our hearts."

That night, Louis got out the shoebox of letters. He'd been saving them. Reading them slowly, one at a time.

He opened one from 1998. Read it silently. Then he smiled. A real smile.

"She got a job that year," he said. "At a library. She said she thought of me every time a little boy came in for story time."

"That's sweet."

He read another. And another. Each one a little piece of her life. A little piece of him she carried.

I left him to it. He needed this time alone with her words.

Later, he came to bed and wrapped himself around me.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For making me go. That first time. For pushing me to find her."

"You would have gone anyway."

"Maybe. But you made it easier. You always make everything easier."

I turned in his arms and kissed him. Soft. Sweet.

"I love you, Louis Crowe."

"I love you too, Sierra Crowe. Forever."

"Forever and ever."

He fell asleep in my arms. Peaceful. For the first time in months, really peaceful.

The letters were on his nightstand. A whole life, written down. A mother's love, saved for thirty-five years.

And now, finally, read by the son who never knew he was so loved.

The next morning, we woke up to Katie jumping on the bed.

"Can we go get pancakes? The really good ones? With the whipped cream?"

Louis groaned. "It's 7am."

"So? Pancakes are good any time!"

I laughed. "She's got a point."

We got pancakes. The really good ones. With whipped cream.

Katie told us about her dreams. Louis told her about Grandma M's letters. I just watched them, my whole heart right there at the table.

Life goes on. Even after loss. Even after grief. The sun keeps coming up. Kids still want pancakes. Husbands still make you laugh.

And love? Love doesn't die. It just changes shape. Fills different spaces.

Margaret's love filled thirty-five years of letters. Now it filled us.

That's the thing about family. It's not just blood. It's not just marriage. It's the people you carry in your heart. The people who make you who you are.

We had each other. Louis and me and Katie. And now we had Margaret too. A grandmother we barely knew but loved completely.

A missing piece, found at the very end.

But better late than never.

Always better late than never.