The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (any book recommendations .txt) 📗

and stuffy in the attic, even with the fan on full blast, like every other day so far this summer. The atmosphere doesn’t feel right for this kind of revolutionary life moment. I need to be comfortable. Focused. My best self.

So where do I open it? When exactly? Do I go outside—maybe sit in the hollow of my tree, or climb to the top of the peak overlooking the valley, or sit along the edge of the pond? Drive to a café? Go somewhere outside Green Woods, order a nice latte like an adult and sit there and sip it while I open an envelope that could change everything. Act casual, like it’s any other day, and this is any other piece of paper.

Do I wait until dark, when secrets feel more secret?

Mama calls up from the bottom of the attic steps and my heart beats against my chest. I didn’t think she’d be home from the studio until later.

“Can I get your help with the garden, sweetie? The weeds are total monsters.”

She pops my door open.

I jump up from the bed, my eyes darting back to the pillow. Safe. Fine. No envelope edges peeking out. Nothing to see.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure. Totally okay. I just didn’t think you’d be home so early. You scared me.”

She glances around the room, like she’s not convinced that’s all that’s going on. Looking for what I’m not sure, Max’s foot sticking out from under the bed, a stray marijuana bud. “I gave Marielle my afternoon classes. I need to get some yard work done. We’re starting to look like the Jackson house.” She shudders at the thought. “Though I haven’t seen it in a while, and not since they moved in. Has your boy helped fix the place up?”

“A little.” Not really, though. My boy thinks it’s his dad’s duty. His house, his promises. It’s more of a standoff than anything. Joanie did at least trim some of the hedges that were starting to grow up over the porch steps.

I change into an old pair of overalls and give one last resigned look at my pillow before following Mama downstairs.

Later. After weeding. There’s no rush.

But clearing the garden turns into taking a spin with the push mower, and after that Mama notices weeds growing in the cracks of our front path. I’m sweaty and sunburned and greatly in need of a shower by the time Mama releases me.

Mimmy’s home then, too, calling up to me as I’m brushing out my wet hair, asking for help cutting up vegetables for dinner.

Ginger texts asking if she can come over to escape her mom.

Max shows up on the doorstep with some wildflowers he picked by the pond.

And just like that, my day is gone, every minute filled with the people I love. The people I’d like to escape, just for a few hours.

Ginger stays until ten. And it’s well after midnight by the time Max slips back through the woods to his house.

My room is still hot, but not quite as unbearable as it was before.

Maybe there is no perfect time or perfect place. Maybe I need to grab the moment whenever it’s here.

And here it is.

I sit on my bed, facing the round window. The moon. I take a deep breath.

With trembling fingers, I open the envelope.

The first piece of paper is from the cryobank—they explain that my donor opted to write a letter, which was then e-mailed to their office.

The second piece of paper is from him. Frank. A neatly typed letter that the cryobank printed out.

Before I read a word, I pick up my phone and scroll through my music library. It’s only appropriate to have some Frank Zappa on right now. I select “Valley Girl” to start. I know from Mama that Zappa’s daughter Moon is featured on that song.

Music playing—volume low enough for me to tolerate—I turn back to the letter.

I start at the top. I want to read all the way through, as it is, not cheat and skip to the bottom. The name that I’m hoping I’ll find there.

Hello,

I’m not sure how to address a letter when I don’t know who you are. What your name is. A simple hello will have to suffice. But really: hello. I mean it. It’s good to “meet.”

Though it’s strange to make contact. To acknowledge your existence. I’m sure it’s just as strange for you.

I have to admit, I’d long forgotten the decision I’d made nineteen years ago. Or not forgotten. Never forgotten. That’s not possible. They alerted me at the time to a confirmed pregnancy, but that was the last update I received, so I didn’t know if the pregnancy was viable or not. I pushed it away after that. Deep into the back of my mind. I made myself busy with other things.

I was still young at the time, trying to make it in Philadelphia with heavy student debt, and I needed money. (I won’t pretend my motives were purely altruistic.) And I was so certain about so many things. One thing I was especially certain about was that I would never have children of my own. I figured that donation—helping other people to have the children they desperately wanted to have—was also a decent thing to do. I kept the donation open because I knew I would be too curious otherwise. I would wonder. Maybe no one would be out there. Or maybe somebody would be.

Here you are. Nineteen years later.

I hope that you’ve had a good life. That your parents gave you the home and the opportunities you deserved.

In case you’re wondering, I ended up having children of my own after all. Soon after the donation. Life laughs when we try to make plans. I don’t think I was meant to be a dad, but so it is. You were better off to not have me in your life. I do believe that. You should, too.

I’m not sure what else to say now. I don’t know that I can offer