A young life ending before it had properly begun.
I had always told Ethan that his uncle had been kind.
Funny.
Stubborn.
Brave.
And that he loved red.
He loved ridiculous red shirts.
Red shoes.
Red jackets.
Anything that made people turn their heads.
But there was one detail I had never told Ethan.
One detail I had buried with the rest.
His uncle had once made a promise to me.
A promise about the child I was carrying.
A promise I thought had died with him.
Until that night in our kitchen.
Ethan squeezed my hand.
“He wrote it down, Mom.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The promise.”
My breathing stopped.
“In one of the letters.”
“What letter?”
“The one in the trunk.”
He reached into the inside seam of the dress.
Another hidden pocket.
My eyes widened.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
This time, I recognized the handwriting before he even opened it.
My hands began shaking again.
“No.”
“Mom…”
“No, Ethan.”
I couldn’t bear it.
“Don’t.”
“I have to.”
He unfolded the paper.
