Chapter 8: The Carrier
Megan arranged, through the agency, a one-time mediated letter exchange. No meeting. No photos required. Boundaries intact.
I wrote by hand first, then typed so the agency could screen. I thanked the woman for the months her body had given. I told her Noah was fed, held, and already stubborn about sleep. I did not ask for her name beyond what she chose. I did not ask for forgiveness on Daniel’s behalf. I signed with my first name and grandmother.
Her reply arrived two weeks later, short and steady. She wrote that she was glad the intended parents had family who cared enough to be angry about honesty. She wrote that waiver had been her choice, made clear-eyed. She wished Noah a life with fewer secrets than his first week contained. I cried again, differently—cleaner. Then I placed both letters in the folder beside the agreement and stopped treating the folder like a bomb.
Daniel asked what she had said. I summarized. He sat with it. Megan held his hand. In the swing, Noah kicked and made a noise that destroyed the solemnity. We let it. Babies are antitheater. That is their genius.
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