I sat slowly on the edge of the bed.
Marjorie closed her eyes.
“I spent years trying to learn where she had gone. My parents refused to help. They said speaking about her would bring shame to the family.”
Owen stood near the window, his back to us.
“My mother died last year,” he said.
His voice broke on the final word.
I looked at him differently then.
For the first time, I saw the grief beneath his controlled expression.
“Before she died, she gave me Marjorie’s name. She told me not to contact her.”
“But you came anyway,” I said.
“Yes.”
Marjorie reached toward him.
“And I’m grateful that he did.”
Part 5: The Truth Behind the Curtains
I looked around the stripped bedroom and remembered the empty walls downstairs.
“What happened to the photographs?”
Owen turned from the window.
“They were photographs of my mother.”
Marjorie nodded.
