“Did she write this letter?” I asked, pointing to the note on the back of the photograph that had brought us here.
Margaret nodded.
“She wrote to him afterward. She asked him to keep the help private and not let it become a debt between their families.”
I looked at Alexander.
He was studying the grain of the table, his expression caught between surprise and something deeper.
“Did my mother know my father?” he asked.
“Only through the clinic,” Margaret said. “They spoke a few times. He visited to check on the work his foundation supported, and he made sure your mother’s care was handled without drawing attention to her.”
“Was there any connection beyond that?” I asked.
“Not that I ever knew.”
Margaret said it with care, not certainty.
“Your mother was grateful,” she continued. “But she wanted her life to remain her own. She didn’t want people to treat her differently because a wealthy man had helped her once.”
