“Hello?”
“Someone there thinks Dad just got his chair back.”
I looked at Dad’s name carved beneath the blue seat.
“My name is Annie.” My voice nearly failed me. “I’m Gilbert’s daughter.”
There was a long silence.
Then the woman whispered, “Gilbert had a daughter?”
For a second, I couldn’t answer.
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
“Gilbert had a daughter?”
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The woman gave a shaky laugh.
“He never told us.”
“He didn’t tell me about you either.”
That quieted both of us.
Her name was Ruth. She had been fifteen when Dad arrived at the foster home.
“He never told us.”
She asked about him carefully.
“Did he still cheat at cards?”
“Yes.”
“Did he still hate papaya?”
Apparently he’d lied to me about liking it.
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“Did he whistle when he was nervous?”
“Did he still cheat at cards?”
I looked at Mom.
She nodded.
“Every time.”
Ruth laughed again.
