Michael stood outside holding flowers.
“Ready?” I whispered.
“Not even slightly.”
Curiosity wouldn't be the only emotion.
“Neither am I.”
Mom appeared behind me. “Claire, who's…”
She stopped.
“What is he doing here?”
“He came to apologize.”
Michael stood outside.
“I don't want his apology!”
“Then perhaps you'll answer my questions instead.”
“Claire, tell him to leave!”
“Not until you explain something.”
He came to apologize.
I placed Michael's childhood photograph on the table.
“Why did Dad keep this for almost fifty years?”
Mom stared at it.
“Was Michael Dad's son?”
“No!”
Not until you explain something.
“Did you foster children?”
“It was complicated.”
Michael leaned forward. “What happened to the little girl?”
Mom covered her mouth.
I opened the locket beside the Christmas photograph.
Why did Dad keep this?
“Mom, that's me, isn't it?”
She looked away.
“Dad wrote 'Our first Christmas together' in 1977. I was three.”
“Claire, please…”
