Douglas’s voice became quiet.
“Marianne said Thomas came to the hospital twice.”
I sat down.
“My father knew her?”
“She believed so.”
“How?”
“We don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.”
Frustration rose in my chest.
“You’ve had decades.”
“And I lost decades before I even knew there was a mystery.”
The words stopped me.
He wasn’t angry.
Just tired.
I looked at him.
For years, I had imagined him living a complete life somewhere else.
I imagined him forgetting me.
Having Christmas mornings and family vacations and ordinary arguments about bills.
I had never once imagined him sitting at a kitchen table after his wife went to bed, staring at a photograph of a baby and wondering whether the past had lied to him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He squeezed my fingers.
“So am I.”
Lucas stood.
“There is something else you need to understand about my grandmother—Dad’s mother.”
