This was her life.
Not a temporary hiding place.
Not a desperate chapter waiting for me to return.
A home.
She leaned against the counter.
“Who told you?”
“Marcus.”
“Of course.”
“He found a photograph.”
“That photograph was taken by a neighbor. She sent it to a friend in Chicago, who recognized my name.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Evelyn’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“I tried.”
My breath caught.
“What do you mean?”
“Several times.”
“When?”
“Before the divorce was final. After the children were born. Once through your office.”
“I never received anything.”
“I know.”
Her answer was too certain.
“How?”
“Because I kept copies.”
She crossed to a drawer and pulled out a thin folder. Its edges were worn, the paper inside carefully arranged.
She placed it on the table.
The first page was a letter addressed to me.
Adrian,
I don’t know if you’ll read this. I don’t know if you’ll care. But the children were born last week. They are healthy. A boy and a girl. I named them Samuel and Lily.
