I pulled at the knot.
I knew the woman’s eyes.
I saw them every morning in the mirror.
“That’s my mom.”
She was older. Her hair was shorter, and fine lines framed her mouth, but there was no doubt.
The picture had been taken six months earlier.
I turned it over.
Three names were written on the back.
I knew the woman’s eyes.
“She has a husband,” I whispered. “And two children. She raised other children.”
“Simone…”
“Did Dad know?”
“He told me not to explain anything.”
I shoved the photograph toward him. “My mother left to buy milk when I was three. Dad dropped out of college the next week. He worked construction until his body broke down, and you’re telling me he knew she was alive?”
“Your father said the truth had to belong to you.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Then I’m taking it home.”
Mr. Lewis followed me to Dad’s apartment because Dad had asked him to stay while I opened the bag.
I didn’t want him there.
I also didn’t want to be alone.
***
My earliest memories of Dad were his steel-toe boots by the door, his orange vest over a chair, and his rough hands tucking me into bed.
“Then I’m taking it home.”
He had been studying engineering when I was born. Then Mom left for groceries one Tuesday and never returned.
Dad left college the next week, borrowed a hard hat, and raised me in the same tiny apartment.
