daughter?”
Margaret’s eyes moved to the letter in Emma’s hand.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The word landed softly.
Then shattered everything.
I looked at my father’s photograph again.
A man with secrets.
A man with intentions.
A man who had somehow written to the woman I would one day marry before I ever met her.
“How?” I asked. “How could he know Emma would come into my life?”
“He didn’t know she would marry you,” Margaret said. “He only knew Clara’s daughter had been placed somewhere unsafe after Rose fell ill. He tried to find her before he died.”
Emma pressed a hand to her mouth.
My mother continued, each sentence dragging itself out of her.
“He hired someone. A private investigator. He found a possible foster record. Then he got sick. After he died, the investigator sent one final report. I never opened it.”
“Where is it?” Samuel asked.
