I opened it carefully.
Most of the pages held names from the clinic, neighbors, and old friends.
Near the end, beside a number that had been crossed out, my mother had written two words:
Moretti family.
Underneath, in a different pen, was a date from the year before Alexander and I met.
I read the words again, then carried the address book to the kitchen and called Daniel.
He listened as I explained what I had found.
“Don’t contact the family based on one note,” he said. “There may be a simple explanation.”
“I know.”
“Let me see the records. I can ask whether any of this appears in the company archives.”
Before I could answer, my phone lit up with a message from Alexander.
I found something in my father’s papers that may relate to your mother.
I haven’t opened it.
I wanted to ask before I did.
