The second showed them sitting at a café, older now, laughing over cups of tea.
The third was a photograph of my father holding a birthday cake.
On the back, Eleanor had written:
He told me about Daniel today. He says his son has finally found work he enjoys. He sounded so proud that I could barely look at him.
I sat on the edge of her bed.
My father had been talking about me to Eleanor.
He had been proud of me.
And I had never known.
Then I found the notebook.
It contained dozens of short entries written over many years.
Some were ordinary observations about the weather or her garden. Others described conversations with my father.
But one entry, dated more than twenty years earlier, made my hands go cold.
Joseph came to see me today. He brought a photograph of Daniel.
I asked whether his son knew the truth.
