Claire was quiet.
“At first, shame.”
“And later?”
“Time.”
I understood even though I hated the answer.
“Every year made the next year harder,” she said. “Eventually I didn’t know whether coming back would be love or selfishness.”
“So you watched from a distance.”
“Dad sent photographs.”
“He shouldn’t have hidden you from me.”
“No.”
“You could have contacted me.”
“Yes.”
“No excuses?”
“I have many explanations. I don’t think any of them should become excuses.”
That sounded like someone I might eventually learn to love.
We agreed to speak again.
Not tomorrow.
Not every day.
Slowly.
The way Stephen and I were rebuilding.
The way families probably should rebuild after secrets—not through dramatic reunions, but through repeated ordinary choices.
Then I asked about my biological father.
His name was Gabriel Rowan.
He lived three states away.
He had never married.
Claire had found him seventeen years earlier while researching our mother’s history.
