I showed him the boy’s photograph.
A meeting with Michael.
“Is this you?”
He stared. “Yes. Where did you find it?”
“In Dad’s things. Along with a letter you wrote twenty years ago.”
“They kept it? I never heard back.”
“What were you looking for?”
I recognized that locket.
“Answers about my childhood.”
“Then tell me the truth. What do you know?”
Michael shook his head. “It’s not my place.”
“Whose place is it?”
“Your mother’s. She needs to tell you herself.”
Answers about my childhood.
“Then why won’t she?”
“I can’t answer that, Claire.”
Wonderful. Mom wouldn’t talk, and now neither would he.
How many people knew something about my life that I didn’t?
Then an idea occurred to me.
She needs to tell you herself.
“Come to dinner tonight.”
Michael stared at me. “What?”
“At my house. Seven o’clock.”
