There was one more thing in the envelope. A sticky note with a first name, a city, and two words.
“He survived.”
His name was Adrian.
He called that night.
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Finding him was easier than it should have been, because he was not hiding. He owned hotels, investment firms, and half the things people write glossy magazine profiles about. I sent one email. Short. Careful. Attached the birth certificate.
He called that night.
No hello. Just, “Where did you get this?”
“From someone who worked in our house.”
Silence.
More silence. I could hear him breathing.
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Then, “Our house?”
“My mother is your mother.”
More silence. I could hear him breathing.
Finally he said, “I always suspected. I never had proof.”
“So it’s true?”
“Yes.” A pause. “I was told I was better off forgotten.”
We met three days later at a quiet restaurant.
I shut my eyes.
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He asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “She replaced me fast.”
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