She didn’t say a word the entire way.
“Mom, say something.”
“Just drive, Claire.”
“You know that man, don’t you?”
“Please. Not now.”
She looked exhausted.
I waited until we got home.
“Who were those children?”
“Your father had that locket. I found it among his things.”
“Why bring it shopping?”
“I meant to show you.”
Not now.
“Then show me.”
“It’s not important anymore.”
“A stranger started crying when he saw it!”
“I don’t know why.”
“You’re lying.”
Your father had that locket.
“Please don’t make an old woman defend every memory.”
That silenced me.
But something was wrong.
And for the first time, I suspected my parents had kept a secret from me.
“I’m staying tonight,” I told Mom.
You’re lying.
“I’m perfectly capable of being alone.”
“Then you won’t mind the company.”
“Claire, you’re being stubborn.”
“Wonder where I learned that.”
She smiled, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was avoiding something.
My parents had kept a secret.
***
After she fell asleep, I opened Dad’s albums.
One showed a little girl beside a fence.
Summer, 1977.
I was born in 1974.
Another showed a boy.
She was avoiding something.
Michael, age seven.
The security guard’s name.
I compared the handwriting with Dad’s other notes. It matched.
Why had he kept these photographs?
Then I found a Christmas picture of Dad holding a little girl.
Another showed a boy.
On the back:
Our first Christmas together.
The child looked exactly like me.
But I was already three in 1977.
Why would Dad call my fourth Christmas our first together?
Why had he kept these photographs?
Beneath the photographs lay an envelope dated twenty years earlier.
Addressed to Eleanor and George.
Signed Michael.
I read the letter aloud.
“I’ve been searching for years. I finally found your address.”
The child looked exactly like me.
I turned the page.
“I don’t want to cause trouble. I just need to know what happened to her.”
I stopped.
“Who are you looking for, Michael?”
***
The next morning, supermarket manager Patricia arranged a meeting with Michael.
I’ve been searching for years.
We met outside a coffee shop.
“First, explain what you did to my mother.”
“I was wrong. There’s no excuse.”
“Then why did you cry?”
“I recognized that locket.”
I showed him the boy’s photograph.
A meeting with Michael.
“Is this you?”
He stared. “Yes. Where did you find it?”
“In Dad’s things. Along with a letter you wrote twenty years ago.”
“They kept it? I never heard back.”
“What were you looking for?”
I recognized that locket.
“Answers about my childhood.”
“Then tell me the truth. What do you know?”
Michael shook his head. “It’s not my place.”
“Whose place is it?”
“Your mother’s. She needs to tell you herself.”
Answers about my childhood.
“Then why won’t she?”
“I can’t answer that, Claire.”
Wonderful. Mom wouldn’t talk, and now neither would he.
How many people knew something about my life that I didn’t?
Then an idea occurred to me.
She needs to tell you herself.
“Come to dinner tonight.”
Michael stared at me. “What?”
“At my house. Seven o’clock.”
“No. I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”
“Why not?”
An idea occurred to me.
“Because I have a life, Claire. Children, grandchildren. I’m too old to start digging through the past.”
“Then don’t. Just come to dinner.”
“What for?”
“For starters, you owe my mother an apology for what happened at the store.”
He looked down. “I know. But seeing her again…”
Start digging through the past.
“Michael, you can’t expect me to walk away with half the story.”
He sighed. “And you think dinner will fix that?”
“I think it’s a start.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “Seven o’clock. But I’m not promising anything.”
I had no idea how that dinner would turn out. But I was tired of asking questions nobody wanted to answer.
But seeing her again…
***
Back at Mom’s, I spread everything I’d found across the kitchen table:
- the old photographs,
- Michael’s letter,
- and the picture of the little girl who looked like me.
I’d spent years teaching history and researching family trees.
I was tired of asking questions.
I knew better than to settle on one explanation without evidence.
“Three possibilities,” I muttered.
“Michael’s a distant relative nobody mentioned. Or Dad knew his family and kept their photographs for some reason.”
I picked up the picture of the little girl.
“Or there’s something about my childhood I don’t remember.”
Three possibilities.
None of the explanations accounted for Mom’s reaction at the supermarket.
I tapped Michael’s letter.
“And why didn’t anyone answer you?”
I gathered the photographs into a folder.
Tonight, I’d have Mom and Michael in the same room. Maybe then someone would finally explain what was going on.
There’s something about my childhood.
***
That afternoon, Mom found me cooking.
“Something smells wonderful. What’s the occasion?”
“We’re having company.”
Her face brightened. “Really? Oh, Claire, we haven’t had anyone over since your father died!”
“I thought it was time.”
Someone would finally explain.
