“She gave him up for adoption,” Louis said. “Years later, she put her name in an adoption registry, just in case. A year ago, that boy found her.”
The photograph.
The shoulders.
The way Mom looked at him.
“You,” I whispered.
“Me.”
His enormous hands hung at his sides.
“She didn’t want to die without knowing me, Margaret. And she didn’t want to lose you while trying.”
Every wall I had built inside myself collapsed at once.
Later, I opened the notebook and found pages of questions Louis had saved for her.
What songs did she sing when she was young?
Did she love the sea?
What color were her mother’s eyes?
What had he looked like in the few minutes she held him?
By then, I was already running back inside.
Mom was awake, her fragile hand resting on the blanket.
I sank into the chair beside her.
“Why a stranger, Mom?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Why not me? Why couldn’t you tell your own daughter?”
She closed her eyes for a long moment.
“Because I was ashamed, Margaret. Sixty years of shame. I gave him away before you were ever born.”
“And you thought I would hate you for that?”
“I thought you would feel replaced,” she whispered. “I taught myself to use the phone so I could write to him without anyone knowing. I just wanted a little time with him before the truth came out.”
A shadow moved in the doorway.
