He sighed. “And you think dinner will fix that?”
“I think it's a start.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “Seven o’clock. But I’m not promising anything.”
I had no idea how that dinner would turn out. But I was tired of asking questions nobody wanted to answer.
But seeing her again…
***
Back at Mom's, I spread everything I'd found across the kitchen table:
- the old photographs,
- Michael's letter,
- and the picture of the little girl who looked like me.
I'd spent years teaching history and researching family trees.
I was tired of asking questions.
I knew better than to settle on one explanation without evidence.
“Three possibilities,” I muttered.
“Michael's a distant relative nobody mentioned. Or Dad knew his family and kept their photographs for some reason.”
I picked up the picture of the little girl.
“Or there's something about my childhood I don't remember.”
Three possibilities.
None of the explanations accounted for Mom's reaction at the supermarket.
