“If this is some kind of joke, I’m not in the mood.”
“It’s not a joke.”
He placed the box on the bench and opened it.
Inside lay a delicate silver necklace with a small heart-shaped pendant. The chain had darkened with age, and the pendant bore two engraved letters.
M and C.
“Who is M?” I asked.
Dad swallowed.
“Your mother’s name was Margaret.”
I stared at him.
“My mother’s name is Evelyn.”
“Your mother who raised you is Evelyn. The woman who gave birth to you was Margaret.”
For several seconds, I could only hear the wind moving through the trees.
Then I laughed.
Not because anything was funny, but because my mind refused to accept what my ears had heard.
“What are you talking about?”
Dad pulled a photograph from his wallet.
It showed a young woman with dark hair, green eyes, and a gentle smile. She was holding a newborn baby wrapped in a pale yellow blanket.
