“Your mother hid something very important from you,” Gabriel said.
“Before she died, she begged me to keep her secret until the right moment.”
PART 2
The question stayed between Gabriel and me while the last of the evening traffic whispered along Oakridge Avenue.
He looked older than I remembered, of course.
The boy I had once watched from our kitchen window had been all sharp elbows and hunger.
The man in front of me had neat hair, a tailored coat and the tired expression of someone who had traveled a long way without being sure he would be welcomed.
“Your mother wanted me to tell you herself,” he said.
“She tried, several times.
But she never found the courage.”
I tightened my grip on the pot of stew.
“She found the courage to scold an eight-year-old for wanting a piece of pie.”
Gabriel did not defend her.
That almost made me angrier.
