Inside the small cavity lay two items: a heavily tarnished silver coin and a tightly rolled piece of lined notebook paper. I pulled the coin out first. It was heavy and cool to the touch. I flipped it over. It was an Alcoholics Anonymous sobriety token.

In the center, deeply stamped into the metal, was a Roman numeral XIX. Nineteen years. My hands were shaking violently now. I unrolled the piece of notebook paper. The handwriting was jagged, written in a faded blue ink. Dear Mrs. Hayes, I am the man who drove the truck on November 14th, 2007.

I was drunk. I was a coward. When I saw what I did to your car, I panicked and I ran. I have lived every single day of the last nineteen years in a prison of my own making. The morning after the accident, I saw on the local news that you had survived, but your baby didn’t.

I wanted to die. I wanted to turn myself in, but my fear always won. I took my last drink that day. I swore to God that I would get sober, and I did. But sobriety didn’t erase the guilt. It just made me feel it, clear and sharp, every second of every day.

I started woodworking a month later to keep my hands busy, to keep myself from buying a bottle. I made the shepherd first. I left it on your porch, hoping it would bring you even a fraction of peace. I kept making them. I kept watching you from the shadows every December, watching your family grow older, watching the empty space on your mantel through your front window.

I couldn’t carve the baby. I didn’t have the right to. I was the one who took him from you.

I told myself I would only carve the child when I was finally ready to give you the one thing you actually deserved: the truth.

He would have been nineteen today. I made this final piece heavy so it could hold my confession. My name is David Miller. I live at 442 Sycamore Lane. The police are already on their way to my house. I called them before I dropped this off.

I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I stood in my kitchen, the letter slipping from my fingers, fluttering to the hardwood floor. Nineteen years of wondering. Nineteen years of staring at beautiful, anonymous wood carvings, unaware that they were forged from the darkest guilt imaginable.

Mark walked into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, freezing when he saw the tears streaming down my face. He looked at the baby in the manger. He looked at the letter on the floor. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if I can ever forgive David Miller, or if I even want to try.