“Then how did my parents control it?”
Richard’s face tightened.
“That is the question.”
He opened the envelope again and removed the photograph. Under the harsh hospital light, the old image looked almost alive: my young mother, the baby in yellow, Richard standing guard beside them.
He turned the photograph over.
“There’s something else,” he said.
I had not noticed before. Beneath the date, written in faded pencil, were four words.
Tell Claire the truth.
My breath caught.
Richard stared at the message as if it had been written by a ghost.
Then, from the hallway, my phone began ringing on the bedside table.
My mother’s name lit up the screen.
PART 3
My mother’s name glowed on the screen like something alive.
For years, that name had been enough to make me sit straighter, wipe my face, change my tone, and prepare to explain myself. Even in adulthood, even with a newborn son sleeping inches away and a broken arm resting heavy across my chest, some old reflex inside me still expected to answer gently, carefully, apologetically.
