“Did he support her?”
“Yes.”
“Did he see her?”
“Occasionally.”
“And she knew about me?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Everyone seemed to know my life except me.
“Why didn’t she contact me?”
“She tried once.”
“When?”
“When your father became ill.”
I remembered that year.
Hospital rooms.
College.
My mother already gone.
My father refusing to discuss how serious his condition was.
“What happened?”
“Charles intervened.”
Of course he did.
I almost laughed.
“What possible reason did Charles have?”
“Your father wanted Anna included in the trust.”
“And Charles wanted control.”
“Yes.”
I met Anna two weeks later.
A café near the Brighton waterfront.
I arrived early.
She arrived earlier.
The moment I saw her, I knew.
Not because she looked exactly like me.
She didn’t.
Her hair was lighter.
Her face narrower.
But she had my father’s hands.
Long fingers.
A small scar near the thumb.
