We sat in the living room.
No one spoke at first.
Lily sat beside Rose on the couch, their hands locked together.
I stood near the window, unable to sit, unable to think clearly.
Finally, Mr. Whitmore looked at my daughters.
“I think it’s time,” he said.
Lily wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
“Dad,” she said, her voice shaking, “there’s something you didn’t know after Mom left.”
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
Rose took a breath.
“We wrote a letter.”
“A letter?”
Lily nodded.
“To Mr. Whitmore.”
I looked at the old man, then back at my daughters.
“You were six years old.”
“We know,” Rose whispered.
My heart was pounding.
“What kind of letter?”
Lily looked down at her lap.
“When we were still in therapy, one of the nurses showed us a magazine article about him. About his foundation. About how his company helped children with disabilities.”
Mr. Whitmore smiled sadly.
“They found a way to contact my office.”
I blinked in disbelief.
“You mailed a letter?”
Rose gave a nervous little laugh through her tears.
“We asked the therapist to help us with the address.”
I could barely understand what I was hearing.
My daughters had been six.
Broken.
Scared.
Abandoned by their own mother.
And somehow, they had written to a billionaire.
“What did you ask him for?” I whispered.
Lily squeezed my hand.
“We didn’t ask for money.”
Rose looked up at me.
“We asked for help for you.”
