the old photographs,
Michael’s letter,
and the picture of the little girl who looked like me.
I’d spent years teaching history and researching family trees.
I was tired of asking questions.
I knew better than to settle on one explanation without evidence.
“Three possibilities,” I muttered.
“Michael’s a distant relative nobody mentioned. Or Dad knew his family and kept their photographs for some reason.”
I picked up the picture of the little girl.
“Or there’s something about my childhood I don’t remember.”
Three possibilities.
None of the explanations accounted for Mom’s reaction at the supermarket.
I tapped Michael’s letter.
“And why didn’t anyone answer you?”
I gathered the photographs into a folder.
Tonight, I’d have Mom and Michael in the same room. Maybe then someone would finally explain what was going on.
There’s something about my childhood.
***
That afternoon, Mom found me cooking.
