That woman had been Eleanor, and the baby had been me, and she had begged them to take me away from a life that would destroy me if I stayed.
“She left money and documents, but that was not why we agreed,” my mother said while crying. “It was the way she let you go as if her heart was breaking apart.”
My father then looked at me steadily and said something that shattered me in a different way.
“I always knew you were not my biological son, and not once did that make it harder to love you,” he said firmly.
I wanted to be angry, but as I looked at them I understood that their lie had been built on love rather than selfishness.
I stayed in a small boarding house in a nearby town for several weeks, trying to process everything, and during that time I received a package from Eleanor containing annulment papers and a handwritten letter.
