I studied his face.
The angle of his shoulders.
The way he tilted his head.
A small scar along his chin.
His mouth.
Something about that mouth bothered me.
It looked familiar.
Then a memory returned.
An old photograph of my mother.
My Daughter Chose the School Janitor Over Me at Graduation—Then He Pulled Out an Old Envelope.
Same crooked smile.
Same shape around the lips.
And suddenly I remembered something she had told me when I was seventeen.
We were sitting at the kitchen table.
She held a cup of tea she never drank.
“There was a baby before you.”
I had looked at her.
“What?”
“A boy.”
She stared at the table.
“Before I met your father.”
I was young.
Uncomfortable.
Afraid that asking questions might hurt her.
So I didn’t.
She never finished the story.
And eventually, I buried the memory.
Until graduation day.
“WHO ARE YOU?”
Arthur unfolded the letter.
His hands shook.
I whispered:
“Who are you?”
The woman beside me turned.
