“Did your father say he knew my mother?”
“He didn’t say much. Only that she had been through a difficult time and had refused help more than once.”
My mouth went dry.
“What kind of help?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he tell you there was money involved?”
“I knew he supported the clinic. I didn’t know that he had helped your mother directly.”
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
I looked down at the photograph again.
“What did he mean when he told you to treat me with kindness?”
“I thought he was asking me to be a decent husband.”
“That’s all?”
“That was all I understood.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know.”
I wanted to ask more, but the questions had begun to multiply faster than I could organize them.
Instead, I pulled the photograph back toward me.
“I can’t tell whether you’re being honest with me,” I said.
