I put my face in my hands.
My father. The man who taught me to throw a curveball and change a tire and make pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse. The man who used to sit on the edge of my bed and tell me stories about growing up in Grandma’s little brick house. That man had a whole other mother out there somewhere. A whole other story.
And nobody ever told me.
“The woman in the picture,” I said, without lifting my head. “The girl with the baby.”
“Yes.”
“That’s Dad. The baby. That’s Dad.”
“Yes, sweetheart. That’s your father. Three hours old.”
I lifted my head and looked at the photograph on top of the envelope. At the young, pale, tired girl in the hospital gown. At the tiny sleeping baby in her arms.
“And she’s here,” I said slowly. “She’s in Room 214.”
