I pulled out a chair and sat down.
I suddenly understood that the worst thing about discovering a secret was not necessarily what it contained.
It was realizing how little of your own history you had been allowed to know.
“Start at the beginning,” I said.
He set the key between us and began.
PART 3
My father had worked as a maintenance supervisor at the old Bellweather packaging plant, a brick building at the edge of Bluebell Valley that employed half the town when I was young.
I remembered his work boots by the radiator and the lemon soap he used to scrub grease off his hands.
I did not remember ever hearing the name Clara.
“Clara was my mother,” Gabriel said.
“She cleaned the offices on the evening shift.
Some weeks she worked six nights because the rent was overdue.”
My father had started leaving a thermos of soup in the break room whenever he noticed she skipped dinner.
