She was waiting on the front step when I pulled up, a woman in her late sixties with silver hair and steady eyes.
She looked like someone who had kept a great many secrets without enjoying it.
We sat at her kitchen table.
She made no offer of tea or coffee.
She simply placed a manila envelope between us and folded her hands.
“Before you open that,” she said, “I want to tell you something Eleanor told me.
Because the documents will raise questions, and I want you to have context.”
“All right.”
“Eleanor was not always alone by choice.” Ruth looked at me directly.
“She had a husband.
His name was Gerald Marsh.
They married when she was twenty-two.
She was pregnant when they married — with you, though she didn’t know it was a girl yet.”
I kept my hands flat on the table.
“Gerald came from money,” Ruth continued.
