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The answer was right there in the stacks of paper.
“Not anymore.”
I copied the return address from one of Marilyn’s letters.
It took me two days to gather the courage to drive to Marilyn’s address.
It was a small, neat house with a basketball hoop over the garage and a lawn that needed mowing. A man in his 30s, wearing a work shirt, opened the door. He had Thomas’s eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He had Thomas’s eyes.
“I… are you Marilyn’s son?”
His eyes narrowed. He glanced at the box in my arms, then back at my face.
“Who’s asking?”
I took a breath. “My name is Margaret. I was married to Thomas.”
The man went completely still. “My Uncle Tom?”
“You knew about him?”
“I… are you Marilyn’s son?”
He nodded slowly, stepping back to let me in. “Mom told me the truth when I turned 18. She said he didn’t want any credit. He just wanted to make sure I could go to college and have a shot at things.”
I gave a small, sad laugh. “That sounds exactly like him.”
The man’s expression softened. “He actually came to my graduation. He stood in the very back of the gym. Afterward, he shook my hand and said he was an old friend of my father’s. I didn’t realize who he was until Mom told me later.”
“Mom told me the truth when I turned 18.”
