“Why does he think I died?”
“Your mother told him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Dad?”
“No. He didn’t meet her until later.”
Another secret belonging to someone no longer alive to explain it.
“Does Gabriel know you found him?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing about you.”
“Why?”
“Because that wasn’t mine to tell.”
For once, someone had left the decision with me.
I appreciated it more than Claire could have known.
It took me six weeks to call Gabriel.
Before I did, I spoke to a counselor.
That surprised everyone except me.
I had spent months learning what happened when families handed unresolved emotion down like heirlooms.
I didn’t want to continue the tradition.
The counselor asked what I wanted from Gabriel.
I didn’t know.
A relationship?
An explanation?
Proof?
Maybe simply the ability to look at him and understand which pieces of my face came from where.
