Three names were written across the back.
“She has a husband,” I whispered. “And two children. She raised other children.”
“Simone…”
“Did Dad know?”
I pushed the photograph toward him. “My mother left to buy milk when I was three. Dad dropped out of college the following week. He worked construction until his body gave out, and you’re telling me he knew she was alive?”
“Your father said the truth had to belong to you.”
“Then I’m taking it home.”
Mr. Lewis followed me to Dad’s apartment because Dad had specifically asked him to remain with me while I emptied the bag.
I did not want the company.
My earliest memories of Dad were his steel-toed boots beside the door, his orange safety vest hanging over a chair, and his rough hands pulling blankets around me at night.
