By morning, I knew I had to act.
I called Jake. “Hey, Mom. You okay?”
“No,” I admitted. “I need your help.”
That was all it took. “I’ll be there in 20.”
Jake arrived with coffee, steady as always. I told him everything.
He exhaled slowly. “Well, guess we know what Dad was doing all those times he said he was ‘running errands.’”
I let out a broken laugh. “Yeah.”
He picked up an envelope. “Do we have an address?”
“Several. But some are old.”
“Then we start with the most recent one.”
An hour later, we were on the road. I held Dolly’s last letter, dated just months ago, rehearsing what I would say.
Three hours later, we arrived at a small house. Jake parked. “You ready?”
“No.”
He smiled. “Good. That means it matters.”
I knocked at the door, heart pounding. A man in his thirties answered.
“I… I’m looking for Dolly. Does she live here?”
“Oh, no. She moved out a few weeks ago.”
My stomach dropped.
He hesitated. “Wait. She left a forwarding address in case any mail showed up.”
Jake stepped forward. “That would help a lot.”
The man disappeared inside, then returned with the address.
I could barely breathe. After all these years, I couldn’t lose the trail now.
