I had two miscarriages. I was married for fourteen months the first time. He wasn’t bad. I just couldn’t stop testing him. Picking fights to see if he’d leave. He did. I don’t blame him.

Then I met Curtis. Curtis is the kind of man who doesn’t flinch. I tested him for two solid years and he just kept showing up. He’d say, “You done?” and then he’d make dinner. He married me anyway. I still don’t understand why.

—

Last Tuesday. April. I was sitting at the kitchen table in our apartment in Decatur. Curtis was making coffee. Biscuit was under the table chewing on a sock.

The mail came through the slot the way it always does. Bills, a coupon packet from Kroger, a flyer for a pest control company. And a letter. Plain white envelope. No return address. My name and address handwritten in blue ink. Handwriting I didn’t recognize.

I opened it.

“My dear Jolene. I know you probably hate me. I have no right to write to you. I was forced to give you up. I had no choice. Your father owed money to dangerous people and they told me if I didn’t give you to Darlene they would hurt you. I chose to let you go so they wouldn’t hurt you. I have thought about you every single day for thirty years. I want to see you. I am in Macon. Please.”

There was an address at the bottom. And a name. Lorraine.

My mother’s name is Lorraine.

I read the letter three times. My hands were shaking so bad the paper was rattling against the table. Curtis heard it and came over. He put his hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t feel it. I was somewhere else. I was five years old standing on a hot driveway watching a green Buick pull away.

“Jo. Talk to me.”

“My mother wrote me a letter.”

Curtis sat down. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he said, “What do you want to do?”