The way he cried when my youngest made a Mother’s Day card.
The way he had once asked me, almost casually:
“Do you know anything about your biological family?”
I had shrugged.
“Not much.”
He had looked away.
I thought he was simply being sympathetic.
Now I knew he had already taken the ancestry test.
He already knew.
He had been sitting across from me at my own kitchen table, knowing he was my grandfather.
And I had no idea.
I opened my laptop.
My hands were shaking.
“Show me,” I said.
Walter nodded.
I logged into the ancestry account I hadn’t checked in years.
There were several notifications.
I clicked the first one.
A close-family match.
Walter Hayes.
I stared at the screen.
Then I looked at him.
“It’s you.”
“Yes.”
“You knew for two years?”
He nodded.
My throat tightened.
“You knew for two years.”
“Yes.”
“And you let my children call you Grandpa.”
“I know.”
“You sat here.”
“Yes.”
“You ate my food.”
“Yes.”
“You helped my kids with homework.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me talk about my childhood.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“And you knew.”
He looked down.
“I knew.”
I closed the laptop.
“Why?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
