Page 48 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Forty-Three

Keir

The letter’s edges are soft now—creased in the middle from where I unfolded it too quickly, like I could control the ache in my chest by closing the words before they got too loud.

My thumb hovers over the seal of the next one. The handwriting is slightly messier than the others—rushed. Was she nervous while writing it or in pain?

I brace myself as I start reading it.

Keir,

He’s here.

This whole birthing thing is not for the faint of heart. The pain, the big needle they stick on your back, the . . . it was an experience that I forgot when they handed me the most beautiful baby in the world.

He’s adorable.

My breath catches. My eyes scan faster, even though I know I shouldn’t rush this. I was supposed to be there with her. Not almost twenty years later, reading a letter where I find out how much I fucked up as a father.

Lyndon. That’s his name. Pria, Jacob, and I came up with that name.

They’re very supportive and have been so patient with me.

I still don’t know if I want to give him up for adoption.

However, they’ve been there for me all this time.

Supporting me, giving me advice, and just letting me feel like I have a family.

This is what I want for him, and I don’t think I can provide it. As I keep going to therapy, I’m beginning to understand that what I had at home wasn’t love. My grandparents used me to hurt Nina, and to be the perfect child. I was their second chance to get this right—and I failed them.

However, I don’t plan on failing myself like Nina did. But let’s not talk about that, and focus on Lyndon instead.

I think he has your eyes.

I didn’t want to see it. I tried not to, but he does. He came out screaming like the world owed him an explanation. Then he looked at me like I was supposed to have one ready.

My chest folds in on itself. There’s no air. No words. Just the name sitting like lead behind my ribs.

Lyndon.

He has my eyes. He looked at her like she was supposed to explain why I wasn’t there. Because I’m a failure and he deserved a lot better than a half-assed man who can’t even tell the woman he loves that . . . well, that he loves her.

The nurse offered to take him from me after the delivery so I could rest. I told her no.

I needed to hold him. Needed to memorize every inch in case they decided he couldn’t stay with me long.

I counted his toes three times. Kissed his fingers until he fell asleep.

Whispered your name like it meant something more than absence.

I’m not ready for this.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. I see her.

Sixteen. Pale. Sweating. Crying, maybe. Probably alone in some cold hospital room that smelled like bleach and sterile apologies.

She would’ve had her hair braided or twisted into a knot to keep it out of her face, biting down on whatever was left of her hope.

And I wasn’t there.

He’s supposed to go with Pria and Jacob in a couple of days. It’s painful, you know . . . to think that maybe this is the only time I’ll be spending with him. Pria assures me that if I decide to keep him, they’ll still support me. If I give him up, I can be as involved as I want to be.

But let’s not focus on the sad part—let me tell you that he’s very small. I’m not sure if he’ll be as tall as the Timberbridges, but who knows.

He’s loud and stubborn . . . and I know you’d say he gets that from me, but you were like that too when no one was watching. You were soft with things that couldn’t fight back.

God.

I’m scared he’ll hate me one day. That he’ll think I didn’t love him enough to keep him. But the truth is—I loved him too much to let him stay. And I hate you for not being here. For making me do this alone.

I set the letter down.

Not because I’m done.

Because I can’t hold it anymore.

I drop my head into my hands, and I try to remember how to breathe like a human being.

I try not to picture her crying while holding the baby I didn’t know we had.

I try not to think about how brave she must’ve been—or how scared.

How it must’ve felt when the nurse came back in and said, “Time’s up. ”

Time’s up.

No mother should ever hear that.

I blink hard. The walls of the library blur. This house that’s kept me isolated for weeks—suddenly, it feels like a tomb.

I was supposed to be a protector.

That’s the story I tell myself. That’s the myth I built after I left. I said I ran to protect her. I said staying would’ve turned me into my father.

But reading these letters, I don’t see someone who was spared. I see someone who broke open quietly and bled on paper because I wasn’t brave enough to stay and witness it.

I reach for the letter again.

My hands are shaking now, but I don’t care. I keep reading.

I’ve told him everything. I told him about the maple trees in spring.

About your stupid jokes and the way you used to sneak Oreos out of the employee lounge of your mom’s company.

I told him his dad used to fight for kids who had no one else.

That once upon a time, you saved me from boys twice your size.

That maybe, deep down, you were always trying to save yourself too.

Now that I’ve met him, I feel sorry for you. Sorry that you might never experience the joy of meeting him and the love he has to give.

Sincerely,

Simone

I press the paper to my chest like that might put something back together.

It doesn’t.

I close my eyes.

And I let myself cry.

Not like before. Not from guilt or confusion. This time, it’s grief. Pure and brutal.

I missed everything.

His birth.

Their entire beginning.

I reach for the next envelope, but my hand stalls over the box.

She told me to read them. Told me to finish. But I’m starting to think this isn’t about understanding the past. It’s about owning it.