I remembered the dress I was wearing.
I remembered the popsicle.
I did not remember the house.
My chest tightened.
Linda’s letter continued.
Your mother was my friend.
Not my closest friend, but the kind of friend who arrived when closeness stopped mattering and need became more important.
Your mother saved this house.
More accurately, she saved us.
Frank wanted to sell after she disappeared because he hated owing someone he could no longer find.
I convinced him not to.
I told him one day we’d make it right.
I wish I had lived long enough to do that myself.
I sat back.
“This is insane.”
Mr. Delgado gave me a sympathetic look.
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
Frank’s letter continued.
“I recognized your last name the first time we met.”
That sentence hurt more than everything else.
I whispered, “No.”
Mr. Delgado looked away.
Frank and I had met at a charity dinner.
He was 63.
I was 45.
We ended up seated beside each other because two people canceled.
He made a terrible joke about dry chicken.
I laughed.
Three months later, we were dating.
I had believed it was chance.
Frank wrote:
“When you introduced yourself as Patricia, I wondered if you were June’s daughter.”
