“What happened?”
“At first she was polite.”
“Too polite.”
“She asked about my childhood.”
“Evelyn.”
“My blindness.”
“What I did for work.”
“What do you do?”
“I transcribe legal audio and train accessibility software.”
Daniel nodded.
“She asked whether I was married.”
“Children.”
“Medical history.”
Daniel frowned.
“Medical history?”
“Yes.”
Nora’s voice became quieter.
“That was when I started wondering whether she wasn't only afraid of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was afraid of something I knew.”
Daniel thought of Chloe.
The words on the envelope returned.
Tell Chloe the truth.
Nora continued.
“I asked whether she had other children.”
Daniel stared at her.
“She said no.”
His jaw clenched.
Nora heard the silence.
“Daniel?”
“She lied.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Nora's hand moved toward the envelope.
“She said one word after that.”
“Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“I asked what it meant.”
“She started crying.”
“She paid the check.”
“Then told me she would explain in the car.”
Daniel’s voice hardened.
“And drove you to the bus stop.”
“Yes.”
“Did she take your phone before or after?”
Nora went silent.
Daniel already knew he would hate the answer.
“She asked to use it in the restaurant.”
“Why?”
“Said hers had died.”
“She never gave it back.”
Daniel stood.
He walked to the counter.
Then back.
“What kind of car?”
“Mercedes.”
“Dark?”
“Yes.”
“Black?”
“I think so. Evelyn described her car once.”
Daniel laughed without humor.
“Of course.”
Laura had purchased a black Mercedes three months before the divorce became final.
Daniel pulled out his own phone.
Nora said, “Don't call her yet.”
He stopped.
“Why?”
“I want to know what's in the letter first.”
Daniel looked at the envelope.
On the outside, Laura had told him not to open it in front of Nora unless she asked.
Nora clearly did not know that.
He told her.
She was quiet for several seconds.
Then said:
“I’m asking.”
Daniel sat.
The envelope opened easily.
Inside were six handwritten pages.
The first line made his pulse jump.
Daniel, if Nora is sitting in front of you, then I have already done something unforgivable.
He stopped.
Nora whispered:
“Keep going.”
Daniel did.
I am writing this because I know myself well enough to know that fear may win when I finally see her. I have spent twenty-four years pretending the first terrible choice of my life ended when I signed the adoption papers. It did not.
Daniel looked at Nora.
Her face had gone white.
He continued.
Nora is my daughter.
The room became absolutely still.
Nora lowered her head.
She already knew that part.
Daniel did not.
Not truly.