There was sadness in his voice, not anger. It made him seem older.
He reached into his coat and pulled out another item. This time it was a small square envelope, pale pink, with my name printed on it in Whitney’s looping handwriting.
“I wasn’t sure whether to bring this,” he said.
Richard stood.
Daniel noticed. “It’s not a legal document. It was in Whitney’s car. She dropped her purse when I drove her home last night. This fell out.”
I accepted it carefully.
The envelope had already been opened.
Inside was a photograph.
For one disorienting second, I thought it was another picture of my mother with me as a baby. But then I saw the colors were modern, the paper glossy.
It was a photo of Noah.
Not one I had sent.
He was asleep in his hospital nursery bassinet, wearing the blue cap the nurses had given him when he was born. The little card beside him read: Noah Bennett. Baby Boy. Date of Birth.
