That surprised me.
“He told you?”
“Yes. He said they had been serious, that it ended badly, and that he regretted how young and stubborn they both were. He did not know about Clara then.”
“When did you find out?”
“Many years later.”
“How?”
“He told me.”
“So you knew while Father was alive.”
Mother closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
The answer struck harder than Clara’s revelation.
“How many years?”
“Six.”
I stood.
She looked tired.
Too tired for the conversation.
But twelve years of silence stood between us.
I could not leave it alone.
“You had six years.”
“Yes.”
“And after he died, twelve more.”
“Yes.”
“Eighteen years, Mother.”
Her voice weakened.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because every year I waited made the next year harder.”
That answer was so painfully ordinary that it disarmed me.
No conspiracy.
No calculated deception.
Just fear accumulating.
She looked toward the chair near the window.
