Within minutes, tears ran down her cheeks.
When she reached the part about Eleanor giving birth to me, she pressed the paper against her chest.
“Oh, my God.”
We sat together in silence.
Finally, Rebecca whispered, “Mom needs to know.”
I nodded.
Margaret Carter was seventy-two years old, still living in the family home where we had grown up. She had spent her entire marriage loving my father and raising us.
Whatever mistakes the adults had made, she had never made me feel anything other than her son.
I could not let her hear the truth from a stranger.
We drove straight home.
Mom was in the kitchen preparing tea when we arrived.
She looked at us in surprise.
“Why are you both here? Did something happen?”
I sat down.
“Mom, we need to talk about Dad.”
Her expression changed.
“Is something wrong?”
I placed the photograph on the table.
