Arthur turned it over.
On the back, someone had written: Arthur, first day home.
“That’s me,” he said.
But there was no certainty in his voice.
I looked closer.
Behind Victoria, slightly out of focus near the hospital doors, stood a younger woman in a nurse’s uniform. Her face was familiar in a way I couldn’t place at first.
Then my breath caught.
I had seen that woman before.
In an old photo album at my mother’s house.
Arthur noticed my expression. “What?”
I took the photograph from him with trembling fingers.
“That nurse,” I whispered. “I think that’s my mother.”
Arthur stared at me.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
Chloe leaned against me, sleepy now, her thumb near her mouth. I held the photograph closer, trying to convince myself I was mistaken. But I knew my mother’s eyes. I knew the tilt of her head. I knew the small scar near her chin from the bicycle accident she used to joke about.
Arthur opened the sealed envelope.
Inside was a letter.
His hands shook as he unfolded it.
My son, it began.
If you are reading this, then your mother has finally decided the past can no longer stay buried.
Arthur stopped breathing for a moment.
I placed Chloe gently in the crook of my arm and leaned closer.
The letter continued in neat, careful handwriting.
The truth about your birth is complicated, but it begins with two women who loved their children enough to make a terrible choice. Victoria Sterling was one of them. The other was Dr. Evelyn Mercer.
My mother’s name.
The room blurred at the edges.
Arthur read the sentence twice, then looked at me.
“My father knew your mother?”
I could not answer.