“We called it protection.”
She sighed.
“Mostly it was fear.”
For the next hour, Mother told us everything she remembered.
The letters.
The occasional calls.
My father’s first meeting with Clara.
The arguments over when I should be told.
The Christmas they had finally chosen.
My father’s sudden heart attack weeks before it.
After he died, Mother had planned to tell me in the spring.
Then after the anniversary.
Then after I became chief executive.
Then after I married.
I never married.
So the years simply continued.
“What made you finally tell Clara you knew?” I asked.
Mother smiled toward her.
“She was terrible at cleaning my desk.”
Clara looked offended.
“I was perfectly adequate.”
“You dusted around the photograph of Thomas every day but never moved it.”
Clara’s face changed.
Mother continued.
“You looked at it every time.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“I did.”
“And then?”
