Neither had I.
And suddenly the question was no longer why Clara had entered our lives.
The question was what my father had wanted me to know before any of us had the courage to tell the truth.
Clara read the words over my shoulder.
Eleanor asked me to come.
Neither of us spoke.
The storage unit suddenly felt too small.
Dust floated through the narrow beam of afternoon light coming through the raised door. Somewhere outside, a truck reversed with a steady electronic beep.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was no mistake.
My mother’s name.
Miriam’s handwriting.
My father holding me as an infant.
And Miriam standing beside him.
Clara sat on one of the boxes.
“She knew your mother when you were born.”
“Apparently.”
“But Mrs. Hale told us she didn’t know about me until years later.”
“She said she didn’t know about you.”
