“My mother’s name was Evelyn.”
“That was the name she used when you knew her.”
I laughed once.
It came out wrong.
“You can’t say something like that and then make coffee.”
“I already started it.”
“Dad.”
He sat.
The kitchen clock ticked above the sink.
Finally he put both hands around his mug.
“Your mother was born Mara Evelyn Novak.”
I searched his face for some hint that he had become confused.
There was none.
“She changed it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Dad looked toward the window.
Outside, morning sunlight touched the garden where only a few hours earlier strangers had moved through the fog.
“She wanted a new life.”
“That sounds like something from a detective novel.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
“Hard.”
That was all he gave me.
For ten minutes.
I knew better than to fill silence with questions when Dad had decided to retreat. Growing up with him had taught me that pressure made him quieter.
