“We didn’t know.”
“You suspected.”
“Yes.”
“For years?”
“No. Your father died before he could learn more.”
I paced to the screen door.
“Kelsey.”
I turned.
My mother looked smaller than she had at the hospital.
“I have asked myself every night since July whether I should have told you sooner about those letters.”
“Mom—”
“No. Let me finish.”
She removed her glasses.
Her new glasses.
Perfect.
Unbroken.
“Parents spend their entire lives trying to figure out when protecting a child becomes lying to them.”
Her voice trembled.
“We almost always figure it out too late.”
I sat back down.
She took my hand.
“Did he love you?”
I stared at the water.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“Kelsey.”
“How could he?”
My voice broke.
“How could somebody plan to meet me because of money and still love me?”
My mother was quiet for a long time.
