The director, Linda, brought us into her office and opened a thick file.
“Your mother arrived here three years ago,” she explained.
“Who admitted her?” Kyle asked.
“A man named Robert.”
Kyle’s face tightened.
“That’s my father.”
Robert had visited Gladys for several months before suddenly stopping. He had also failed to provide an updated emergency contact.
Kyle looked through the documents.
“My name isn’t anywhere.”
“No,” Linda said.
“Then how did the police find me?”
Linda removed a small envelope from the file and unfolded a faded index card.
On one side was a child’s drawing of a house. On the other was an old telephone number. Beneath it, written in shaky handwriting, were four words:
**My son. Never forget.**
Kyle covered his mouth.
“That was my childhood telephone number.”
Although it had been disconnected for decades, the police had traced old records until they found him.
