“No.”
“Then what?”
“Of losing the life she was trying to build.”
Margaret looked ashamed.
“She was twenty-three. Your biological father wanted to leave town. Your mother didn’t. They fought constantly. By the end of the pregnancy, she wanted him out of her life.”
“So she told him I died?”
“Yes.”
“That’s horrible.”
Margaret looked down.
“Yes.”
There was no defense.
No attempt to soften it.
For once, the truth simply sat between us.
“Did my father know?”
“Later.”
“What did he think?”
“He hated the lie.”
“Then why didn’t he correct it?”
“Because your mother made him promise.”
I almost laughed.
Promises again.
Our family should have embroidered the word on a flag.
“I wish everyone had been less loyal to promises and more loyal to truth.”
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“So do I.”
I hugged her before leaving.
Not because the hurt disappeared.
Because relationships sometimes survive truth by becoming different instead of returning to what they were.
