“No,” I said. “That’s not true.”
“It’s true, Daniel.”
“No. Dad looked just like Grandpa. Everybody said so. Everybody always said, ‘Michael, you’re Frank’s spitting image.’”
“People see what they expect to see,” Grandma said gently. “Your grandfather and your father both had brown hair and big hands and a habit of whistling when they worked. That was enough for most folks.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Yes. We told him when he turned eighteen. He took it very well. He said, ‘You’re my mom. That’s all I need to know.’ He never wanted to look for his birth mother. Not once. Not even after you were born.”
“Why didn’t anybody ever tell me?”
“Your father wanted to tell you himself,” Grandma said. “He said he’d do it when you were older. When you were a man, with a family of your own.” Her voice cracked. “And then he never got the chance.”
