Caleb explained that the baby in the photograph was him. His mother had died shortly after childbirth, and Franklin had raised him alone. But the important part was not the child—it was the woman holding him. My mother had traveled four states away in September 1985 and visited Franklin at the hospital. Until that moment, I had never known the two of them had met after he left Nebraska. Franklin reached toward the blue suitcase and whispered, “She brought me your letters.”

Inside were dozens of envelopes I recognized immediately, including several I had written after Franklin supposedly asked me never to contact him again. Most had never been opened. My mother had intercepted them before mailing and later told Franklin I had become engaged to someone else. Then she gave him a typed letter bearing my forged signature, asking him to stop writing permanently. The cruel letter I received from Franklin months earlier had been written only after he believed I had already rejected him.