“What are you saying?”
“Marcus told me once.”
Her voice shook.
“His father had a child before he married Marcus’s mother. The family never acknowledged him.”
I stared.
“No.”
Claire continued.
“That child’s mother was named Laura.”
My knees almost gave out.
My mother’s name was Laura.
Eleanor whispered, “Christopher.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Claire asked, “When were you born?”
I told her.
She covered her mouth.
“That’s the same year.”
I backed away from the table.
“No. This is ridiculous.”
But then I remembered something.
My mother crying when I asked about my father.
The birthday cards with no return address that arrived until I was seven.
The photograph I once found of her standing beside a dark-haired young man near a lake.
She had torn it in half when she saw me holding it.
“Daniel,” Eleanor said. “Find out.”
He nodded.
Hours later, the answer came.
