Eventually, he had walked away.
After Frank died, I wrote to Evelyn.
I told her about the funeral.
I told her I was pregnant.
After Emma was born, I sent another letter and included a photograph.
Most of my envelopes came back unopened.
The rest received no reply.
“You knew where we lived,” I said through the door.
Evelyn’s expression collapsed.
“I was told you had moved overseas.”
“Who told you?”
Before she could answer, another woman marched toward the porch.
She was perfectly dressed, with immaculate hair and an expression sharp enough to cut glass.
“This has gone far enough, Mother.”
Barry’s posture changed.
His shoulders stiffened.
I opened the door slightly wider.
“Who are you?”
The woman gave me a cold glance.
“Margaret. Frank’s sister.”
I remembered the name.
Frank had once said that Margaret had a remarkable talent for finding whichever version of the truth benefited her most.
