My heart started beating faster.
“Why?”
“I need to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Your father made mistakes.”
I stared at Luca.
“What kind of mistakes?”
My mother didn’t answer.
“Mom?”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
She hung up.
I sat motionless.
My father had always been a hero in my childhood.
He worked six days a week.
He coached my baseball team.
He taught me how to drive.
He never missed a birthday.
When he died, everyone said I was lucky to have had a father like him.
There had been one story, though, that nobody ever explained.
When I was thirteen, a woman came to our house.
I remembered it because my father had become unusually angry.
He told me to stay upstairs.
I heard shouting.
Then crying.
Then the front door slammed.
Later, I asked my mother who she was.
Mom said:
“Someone from your father’s past.”
I never asked again.
I had forgotten about it.
Or thought I had.
Until now.
At 10:07, Claire called.
I answered immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Mom has the envelope.”
“Did you open it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She said we should wait for you.”
I swallowed.
“My mother is coming here.”
Claire went silent.
“What?”
“She called me.”
“What did she say?”
“That Dad made mistakes.”
Claire’s breathing became audible.
“My mother said the same thing.”
I stood up.
“About my father?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
Then Claire said:
“Evan, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“My mother knows your father’s name.”
“She would.”
“No.”
Her voice lowered.
“I mean she knew him before she ever met you.”
I felt the room tilt.
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t know.”
“Claire.”
“She said when she saw your last name after we got engaged, she thought it couldn’t possibly be the same family.”
My heart pounded.
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s getting the envelope.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“She went into the storage room.”
“Claire.”
“I’ll call you back.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Luca.
Then at the clock.
10:14.
My mother arrived at 10:42.
She didn’t knock.
She opened the front door with her spare key.
She walked inside carrying a handbag.
She looked older than she had the previous week.
Not physically.
Something in her expression had changed.
Fear.
I had never seen my mother afraid like that.
“Where’s the baby?”
“With me.”
She walked into the living room.
She saw Luca.
Her eyes immediately softened.
Then she looked at me.
“Did you see the letter?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Mom, what is going on?”
She sat down.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Then she whispered:
“Your father had another family.”
I laughed.
It came out automatically.
“No.”
“He did.”
“No.”
“He had another woman before he married me.”
“That doesn’t mean another family.”
“He had a daughter.”
I stopped breathing.
“A daughter?”
My mother nodded.
“She was born three years before you.”
I stared at her.
“What was her name?”
My mother looked toward the window.
“Claire.”
I felt the blood leave my face.
“No.”
“She wasn’t your wife’s daughter.”
I exhaled.
Relief came first.
Then confusion.
“What does that have to do with Claire?”
My mother looked at me.
“That is what we need to find out.”
I couldn’t speak.
She continued.
“Your father had an affair with a woman named Rebecca.”
“Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died.”
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
I remembered the date on the envelope.
My stomach tightened.
“Why did Dad have a letter for Claire?”
My mother shook her head.
“He didn’t.”
“What?”
“The letter wasn’t for your wife.”
“Then why does it say her name?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood up.
“Mom, you’re not telling me everything.”
She looked at me.
“I’ve spent eleven years trying not to.”
“Why?”
“Because your father made me promise.”
“Promise what?”
“That if the truth ever came out, I would protect you.”
I stared at her.
“Protect me from what?”
She opened her handbag.
She pulled out a photograph.
An old photograph.
The edges were yellow.
She placed it on the table.
I picked it up.
My father was standing beside a woman I didn’t recognize.
She was holding a little girl.
The little girl looked about four years old.
I stared at her face.
Then I looked at my mother.
“Who is she?”
“Rebecca.”
“And the child?”
My mother hesitated.
“Her daughter.”
I turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Rebecca and Claire — Christmas, 1998.
My fingers went numb.
My wife’s name was Claire.
The woman in the photograph was holding a little girl named Claire.
I looked at my mother.
“That’s not possible.”
“I know.”
“Claire was born in 1995.”
My mother nodded.
